A room with no view
by Eyebrows2
Summary: Sherlock has obtained some very dangerous information, which some very dangerous people want.  They have obtained Sherlock.  Imprisoned and almost helpless, can Sherlock's brilliant mind overcome pain and terror, to keep the secret, and John, safe?
1. Chapter 1

**A room with no view**

_**I do not own anything that BBC Sherlock or Arthur Conan Doyle owned first**_

**Chapter 1**

Sherlock Holmes sat in the heavy wooden chair, his hands gaffer taped tightly to the arms, his bare chest and legs tightly to the frame, and attempted to force his mind back into analytical mode. It was difficult, but there was some comfort in doing it.

It would be pointless to deny he was terrified. His stomach churned with the horror of his situation, he could taste bile in his mouth, and his heart hammered against his ribs, which heaved with the rapidity of his breathing. However, accept that, deal with it, move on.

They were going to torture him. That much was obvious. He had information, they knew he had it, they wanted it. Their abduction had been most professional. Slick, in fact. Sherlock was not as easy man to surprise. For all John might berate him for getting himself into disastrously dangerous situations, he never endangered himself unnecessarily. He often changed direction when he walked, and his movement was prone to weave suddenly (he knew it took time to set up a sniper shot). He avoided routines, he _knew_ if he was being followed, and he always had several escape routes planned in his head. His reflexes were preternaturally sharp, and he could fight like a demon when he needed to, not to mention his discreet little stash of improvised weapons he liked to keep about his person.

There must have been several of them in it. Likely on their phones in the coffee shops or bus stops as he passed, anywhere their loitering would not attract attention, waiting to give the signal.

There had been no dramatics. Nothing fancy like darkened windows in the perfectly ordinary people carrier that the attractive, ordinary looking 30-something woman was trying to reverse park. Their only mistake had been the stick-on number plates which they had doubtless removed by now, lest they be noticed kidnapping a member of the public. He had noticed the minute bubbling a split second too late, just as the man who had been guiding his partner into the tight parking spot leapt upon him, pinning Sherlock's arms behind him with his coat, as three more men erupted from the vehicle, stuffing a sack over his head as they bundled him into the people carrier and pinioning him to the floor as they slammed the door and drove away. It was so quick, over in a few seconds, that Sherlock doubted any passers by had even noticed. He had struggled frantically, but then the rather pleasant smell of Halothane began seeping through the fibres of the bag. Even as he held his breath, he knew it was hopeless. The last thing he remembered before waking up was them removing the bag and placing him in the recovery position. There was a bag valve mask next to him. They evidently needed him alive.

He had wakened cold and stiff, feeling very sick, and realised that he was being dragged to a chair. Taped securely into it. Naked except for his boxer shorts. Unharmed as yet. They then left him there, alone.

Typical psychological intimidation of the captive. Making him feel vulnerable. They'd been watching too much James Bond. He supposed he should feel grateful they had left him his boxers at least – until he glanced down at them and realised he must have lost control of his bladder whilst he was unconscious. Add humiliation to the mix, his brain noted dispassionately. Clever. Nasty.

_Concentrate on your surroundings, and assess the possibilities for escape_, he instructed himself firmly. The room was small and bare, lit by one fluorescent slit lamp that cast a sickly greenish glow over everything. Horrible ambient lighting. _More mind tricks._ There were no windows. Three metres by three metres twenty approximately. Low ceilinged – _oppressive_ – about two metres ten. The door was directly behind him. Plain, unpanelled, but looked heavy. Locked. The walls were plaster board, painted cream, and the floor was cheap linoleum in green and grey squares. A dankness in the air led him to believe he may be in a cellar.

The chair had been nailed to a thick wooden block, 150cm square and 4cm deep, which made it quite impossible for him to tip himself over. The gaffer tape was applied thickly, from wrists to elbows, in several separate strips. He could free himself, but it would take him a good couple of hours of stretching and turning within the tape before the adhesive would give sufficiently to get an arm out. Several loops ran around his chest, not quite tightly enough to restrict his breathing, but enough that he could barely move. His legs were similarly restrained.

Escape, then, seemed unlikely, unless they were foolish enough to leave him to stew unsupervised for too long, which he doubted, after the professionalism of the abduction. He did begin work to free his right arm, but only because it would be negligent not to. Likewise, he docketed the fact that the fluorescent tubing would be his best hope both of a weapon and the makings of a lock pick should he break free of the chair. These actions did not really require much conscious thought, however. He forced himself to contemplate the fact that he probably would not break free in time. He must plan for that eventuality.

They would almost certainly be wanting to know where the data stick was. They thought he knew. And he had known, except now he didn't. He had given it to John, told him to hide it in a very safe place. His captors were unlikely to suspect this eventuality, as Sherlock chose to always convey the impression of trusting nobody but himself with matters of importance. Sherlock suspected John had chosen an anonymous public locker somewhere, but there was always the possibility he had been more imaginative. They would ask him where it was, and he _must not tell them he had given it to John_ Knowing what was on that stick, John would be no more likely to tell them its whereabouts than Sherlock, and Sherlock did not want John treated as he had been.

They were almost certainly going to torture him. He angrily suppressed the sensation that his insides had turned to liquid, and forced himself to use this time to prepare for it.

He had read enough about torture to know that almost nobody is capable of resisting it indefinitely. He thought he probably had quite a high pain threshold, and certainly a superior ability to distance himself from physical discomfort, but he was under no illusions. If things got bad enough, he would cave eventually. He had to pre-empt them. _Where would you hide a tree? In a wood, _he thought. He must plant a wood. There must be an initial resistance, then he must appear to give them what they wanted to hear. Yet it must be lies. Plausible lies. Lots of them. Lies that would take time to investigate. That way, if or when he slipped up and gave them the truth, it would be concealed. With a jolt, he realised they would probably think to use John as leverage if they were getting nowhere with Sherlock. Part of his plan must be to convince them that John was of far secondary concern to him than his own skin. He remembered the scene in 1984. Room 101. _Julia, do it to Julia!_ The book had unnerved him. It had reminded him of Mycroft. _Ah. I am wandering._. He must beg them to _do it to John_ early on, yet make them think he was lying.

Purposefully, calmer now he had a project for his brain to work upon, he began constructing and rehearsing his scenarios, forcing them into the front of his brain, whilst fixedly trying to "delete" the truth, so that, when he blurted an unguarded "confession", the lies would spring to his lips first.

The door behind him opened, and he managed not to jump. Managed to look calm, cold, collected. _At least start this business with your pride intact, Sherlock. Even if you don't have a shred of it left at the end._

His captors, two of them, wore incongruous yellow rubber gloves and rubber David Cameron masks. He wondered for a moment if this was a little jibe aimed at him from reading John's blog. Cheapish suits, both a couple of years old, probably Burton. No skin on display at all, although he thought they were probably both white, judging by their bone structure. _Well, that narrows it down, Sherlock. _ One six foot one, the other five eleven. Oh, God, green Wellington boots, new. They were expecting this to be messy.

He wanted to cry at the sight of the pliers in the taller man's hand, but he pushed the response away, and instead embraced the paradoxical sense of relief. _I can hold out for a little while against the sort of damage they can do with those. This should give me time to make them dance._

He had to last seven hours. Seven hours only, and then nothing would matter, _except for the fact I'm being tor... shut up! Focus! You have a job to do._

_-ooo-ooo-  
_

_Nasty beginning to my first foray into BBC Sherlock. Hope you're hooked and horrified! I always love and appreciate reviews, so please do... _

_Continued in chapter two._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Two weeks earlier:_

"Sherlock, how often do I ask for you assistance?"

The consulting detective deigned to throw a cold glance over the music score he was studying, but made no other reply.

"What would it take to persuade you to cooperate?" his visitor asked, with a sigh.

"Mycroft, what would it take to persuade you that I will not be manipulated like all your other toys?" He spoke softly, and this time, addressed the music score.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Sherlock. You are not a child. This is not about me manipulating you, nor you defying me, nor who you see I see as toys, nor how your response to your perception of me will result in this juvenile and recalcitrant behaviour."

"Well done, Mycroft. You kept control of that sentence admirably; it was threatening to run away with you at one point." He nodded and flashed his canines in his brother's direction, in the parody of a smile. Mycroft returned the expression with a little more false charm.

"At least hear me out, Shock."

The glare was the kind only years of practice since early childhood could achieve.

"_Don't _start to adopt long lost pet names. I loathed it when I was a kid, and nothing's changed. What do you want? Keep it short, I'm busy."

Mycroft's upper lip gave the most minute of upward quirks. He had known, of course, that irritating Sherlock in one respect was likely to distract him from his determined insubordination. Both brothers also knew, and knew the other knew, that Sherlock was demonstrably not busy. However, this game of theirs had certain unspoken rules, which both chose to abide by. Without the rules, there would be no way of telling which brother had won; an unthinkable situation in this competitive pair.

"Very well. Short and sweet. I rather think this will appeal to your sensibilities.

"Currently, I am assisting, in a consultancy-only capacity of course, in a large scale corruption investigation." Sherlock's eyebrow lifted a fraction. Mycroft did everything in a consultancy-only capacity; the alternative – actually diverting from his usual routines – necessitated an unacceptable level of effort. Believe this made him slapdash at your peril. This master puppeteer kept track of every twitch his puppets made, and predicted many in advance.

Mycroft smiled at Sherlock. "As you can imagine, it is not exactly on a petty scale. The police, the civil service and the Forces are involved. It is a situation where it becomes difficult to separate the law from the criminal." A look as if he had just bitten into a lemon crossed his face. "It is possible it even extends to my own department."

Sherlock lounged back in his seat, broadcasting his feigned disinterest. "Conspiracy theories, Mycroft? How very plebeian. What's next, men in dark glasses behind the scenes, watching our every move, secretly controlling our destinies... _hold on_ ... that's you, isn't it? Or at least, you'd like it to be."

"Have you finished mocking? I am not being over dramatic. This is one of the biggest operations of its kind in recent years. The kind of weeding any government that has even pretensions towards honour and decency must undertake every now and again. Where-ever there is crime, there is money and power. Whenever there is power, there is a tendency to crave more power. Mix the elements together, and some of the most powerful men in our country find they have a great affinity for crime, and indeed, for criminals."

"I'm sure you'd make an excellent criminal, Mycroft."

"So would _you_." Declared his brother, distastefully. "I often think you are half way down that road already. And you were such an adorable child, it's difficult to understand where it all went wrong. I'm sure the drugs played a part of it, but you've been clea..."

"Shut up!" Both brothers realised they had inadvertently strayed from the rules of the game into territory where they could actually hurt each other, and both scrabbled to recover the delicate equilibrium.

"So, the case." Mycroft almost stammered, his face slightly tinged with pink. "It seems to be the kind of tedious snowball effect that underpins most of these situations. A small favour, slightly illegitimate, here, a reciprocal gesture there, somebody else finds out and chooses to profit from the situation rather that expose it... the favours and gestures get bigger, more ambitious, more ruinous. Most of the time, of course, these sorts of shenanigens get discovered, and the perpetrators either are detained at Her Majesty's Pleasure, or shuffled off this mortal coil a little more rapidly than they would choose, either by their own hand or others, or have to make red-faced press statements surrounded by their vacuous looking families in front of their houses saying their wife and the Prime Minister support them utterly, until they are eventually, inevitably, fired and divorced."

"But occasionally, through a run of luck, or unusually good planning, the situation goes viral."

Mycroft sighed. "OK, _goes viral_, if you insist on adding a subcultural vernacular. Such is the situation we have now. I doubt we will ever know exactly how it all started. Contrary to popular believe, the Government has neither the time nor the inclination to conduct the kind of exhaustive surveillance into the daily life of the Joe Public that would give us an early heads up. People would be so unflattered if they knew that most of the time, we haven't the foggiest and don't give a damn what they are up to, and that most of the time, CCTV is to catch muggers and violent thugs, or for junior security officials to post footage of bonking couples on YouTube."

"Or to intimidate my flatmate. Oh, and no-one says _bonking_ any more Mycroft."

"Mummy does, although I don't think she means what I meant", replied Mycroft. Mummy Holmes used the word to refer to the sensation when one is so hungry one feels lightheaded.

Both brothers grinned genuinely at each other for the first time, again in a way that can only be experienced if shared childhood experiences (preferably enabling mocking of parents) exist. The lessening of tension seemed to confer a more businesslike air upon the discussion.

"Oh, yes, surveillance is a very useful tool if you pique our interest, but you have to pique our interest first."

"I take it your interest is officially piqued by this case?"

"Very much so". The exaggerated lift of the eyebrows made Mycroft's sincerity appear contrived, although for once, it probably was not.

Sherlock pushed his music stand to one side, laying down his violin and leaning back with his eyes narrowed and his fingers steepled. He was ready to listen.

"There are certain people, who we have had our eye on for some time, who we believe to be dabbling in some particularly unsavoury trades, and yet who preserve the public façade of respectability with some skill. You have heard of Kenneth Nevill?"

"Yes, of course. Part of where our circles of influence cross, I believe."

"Indeed. Ostensibly a tobacco magnate, a profession which automatically requires a degree of moral pliancy. Active supporter of the Conservative Party, although his offers of donations have been perceived as being too much like dirty money. The Guardian and Private Eye would be frothing with eagerness to discover the least suggestion of policy influence he has had; the Tories view him as being 'bad for the image'. Plus, a few of them are even quite decent chaps, and they don't like the aura of viciousness that hangs around him. If he wants influence, he has to gain it via back door trading."

"Yes. And I understand back door trading is one of his sidelines."

"Sherlock, are you being deliberately disgusting?"

"Mm. _He_ certainly is. He's an active supporter of organisations who recruit young men and women to trade the only thing they have to offer in order to fund their habits, or to remain in this country. People trafficking and prostitution. It's big business, my homeless network tells me. I've helped a couple of them get away from his associates, and most of them avoid his lot, but the gossip still spreads. They're not the kind of people who can often get other people to listen to them though. May be illegal immigrants. Often mentally ill, vulnerable, abused as kids. Or Addicts. Often personality types who don't fit in with 'normal' people."

Sherlock was suddenly speaking with great bitterness, and Mycroft, for a moment, looked extremely distressed. Then any emotional undercurrents were smoothed over, and the brothers continued their discussion as if they were talking about the weather.

"I take it none of this information is of a type that will allow you to get any of these accusations to stick?"

"Not yet. Working on it, but the leads have dried up for the moment. Nothing concrete to go on. All circumstantial. He'll make mistakes eventually, but I have to wait for reports to come to me. I expect he keeps his involvement to a minimum, so it may take time."

Mycroft leaned forward. "He has help. We have a good idea who much of that help is, and we are fairly sure we know who the chief helper is. We know several of the intermediaries. Some are in the Immigration Office. Some are in the police. Some are in the forces – we believe he has links with the illegal arms trade also. Some are policy makers. Between the lot of them, they can arrange a blind eye on entering the country, charges to be inexplicably dropped, legislation which would be inconvenient slowed down. We don't know the details, and that is the problem. We need an Al Capone situation, a reverse snowball, or reverse viral, if you like, to catch him and the other main players."

"You mean, you catch the little people, those whose involvement has been slight enough that they could reasonably expect to walk away with only minor damage, and they start implicating those higher up the ladder, with a dominoes effect?"

Mycroft smiled. "What a lot of metaphors. Indeed. Oh, we could catch our main player, but a lot of the middle ranking conspirators would escape, and they are a terrible influence, I'm afraid. We could do with a clean swoop."

"So, who do you believe your chief right hand to be?" There was no mistaking Sherlock's interest now.

"Superintendent Mark Whittard of Scotland Yard."

Sherlock let out a reverential whistle. The Superintendent was one of the most influential men in the Police Force, his own department responsible for interdepartmental and external liaison. He already had his fingers in a great many pies. He had obviously got greedy.

"What did you want me to do?"

Mycroft took a sip of the tea he had made for himself earlier. "I have had one of my most _trusted_ people investigating this. He is not generally known to be answerable to me. He has established the right connections to be able to recommend a junior police officer, in whom I also repose _total_ trust, to another corrupt member of Whittard's team. This officer has been accepted into their little circle, and I had hoped it would be possible to directly gain the confirmation we need. However, we have not got so far as this.

"We have gained access to his computer. He is not a born master criminal, he is a police officer and manager at heart. He will need to record his dealings to keep track of them. However, he has not been entirely careless. My informant tells me keeps a datastick clipped to his car-keys, which he always has in his trouser pockets. I would very much like to see what is on it."

"It could just be his shopping list."

"He is acutely careful with it. He keeps his hand in his pocket over the top of it whenever he is outside his office. This mannerism is something he has adopted in recent years. Also, when my informant has undertaken his instructions or brought him useful information, he has loaded the stick into his computer and typed down what he has been told."

"I thought you said you had searched his computer?"

"He has disabled all versions of auto-save, and never saved anything on to his hard drive. We have been able to recover fragments of Excel documents; enough to arouse suspicion, and also to tell us that thankfully he does not use a code, but not enough to incriminate all those involved. What it has told us is that Nevill is quite probably not his only client. Word gets around, if there's a way to circumvent the authorities, and I imagine Whittard is quite popular."

"You want me to obtain that datastick." It was a flat statement.

"Yes." The reply was equally unemotional.

"Why can't you just have it removed from his person?" Mycroft's face twisted slightly, as if a wasp had just stung him. "Ahhh. You said you suspect your own department. You are worried, that if you went down the official routes, there would be a leak, and Whittard would be tipped off in time. Really, Myke, it's very careless of you to not keep a tighter ship. I would have assumed you could sniff out a treacherous thought before the owner had thunk it."

Mycroft tried to look impassive, but Sherlock was evidently close enough to the truth to rile his sibling.

"I have narrowed it down to three. In a few days, I will have narrowed that to two. I will find him, by whichever means necessary. But that will take time, and I would rather not wait."

"What's the hurry?"

"I believe Nevill has a major shipment planned. There is twittering. It would certainly be desirable to contain whatever antisocial produce he wishes to flood the country with. It is unfortunate timing, as I really cannot miss the summit in Toronto."

Sherlock was silent for a few minutes, apparently lost in thought. Mycroft allowed him to cogitate, then, when Sherlock raised his silver eyes to meet his own, he continued.

"We know that he locks the stick in his study at night. My loyal police officer has seen it is so. I have the specifications of his burglar alarms."

"Surely you have people who could do this sort of thing for you? Some 00-agent or somesuch?"

"I see John has helped you brush up on popular culture."

"Why me?" persisted Sherlock. He evidently already knew the answer, as he was clearly suppressing a triumphant note to his voice.

"Oh, very well, I suppose you will insist on hearing it, and I dare say you will be insufferably smug about it", huffed Mycroft. "I wish you to steal the datastick because I trust nobody else to do it as well as you."

_-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-_

Sherlock regarded the two masked men standing in front of him. Carefully inflecting his voice with as much icy contempt as he could manage, he spoke.

"Ten out of ten for effort, but I'm afraid you lack originality and imagination."

"Where's the flash disk, Sherlock?" asked the shorter of the two. It was quite a pleasant voice, cultured, with a slight lowlands Scots edge to it.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about", answered Sherlock, coldly. He sounded bored and unimpressed; certainly nobody would have guessed from his demeanour that his insides were seething with fear.

"Mm", said the shorter man, sounding equally unemotional. "Perhaps a minor demonstration of the type of experience you can expect if you don't tell us what we want to know."

The taller man held up the pliers, and Sherlock started to sweat.

The eyes behind the mask were hazel. They were not cold or ruthless, but there was no hesitation in the man as he reached for Sherlock's hand. Sherlock instinctively tried to curl his fingers tightly to protect them, but the tall man imperturbably continued, forcing his middle finger out straight. The rubber gloves helped grip tightly against the damp skin.

_Oh God oh God Oh God... they're going to pull out my fingernails... right, this is going to hurt a lot. Grit your teeth, don't scream yet though, it's too early..._

Sherlock looked after his nails. They were useful things for probing, scraping, delicate work; not to mention it would perilous if he were a nail biter when he handled so many chemicals. Now the pliers gripped the neat white tip carefully. With an steady, inexorable motion, they pulled, hard.

Sherlock _screamed_.

**_-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-_**

_Well, what has Mycroft got Sherlock into? Thanks for the hooked and horrified amongst you for reviewing! Reviews do make my day, so I would always love a few more!_

_ Continued in Chapter 3..._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_Two weeks earlier_

John sighed as he sank into his armchair, the Union Jack cushion tucked into the small of his back, pulling the new square beanbag-footrest Sherlock had bought him (the gesture probably a response to John having usurped Sherlock's favourite sprawled position on the sofa) into a comfortable position with his toes. He closed his eyes, luxuriantly flexing his aching feet, and ignoring his hunger. Too tired to bother with food; he had just finished a week of night shifts locuming as a paediatric middle grade in Wales, and a combination of winter viruses and the call to use his slightly rusty neonatal skills had meant the last three had been unprecedentedly frenetic.

The front door slammed, and he heard footfalls bouncing up the steps two at a time. _Sherlock has a case, then. God, I really hope he doesn't expect me to go chasing off somewhere._

The living room door opened, and Sherlock bounded in, a carrier bag in his hand.

"John! Good to see you, glad you weren't delayed. How were the snotty kids?"

_He's learning_, thought John, with genuine appreciation. _He's bursting with news, but he's remembered to ask for mine first. Although he probably just wants to get it out of the way_. He smiled, half ruefully, to himself, and played along.

"Extremely snotty. And numerous. Feeble locum GP on for the weekend at PrimeCare, automatically sending anyone under the age of ten in without even examining them properly. Mind you, a few were properly ill, and just when we thought we were getting things under control last night, a woman came in and suddenly delivered twenty-seven week twins – no time to transfer her out. The retrieval team from the tertiary neonatal unit had to take them separately, so I was up all night with them, they didn't take the second til seven thirty." He paused, and smiled in satisfaction. "I phoned and they're doing well, though. Hopefully be OK."

"Actually, sounds less dull than your usual shifts. And you were OK with being the registrar, and your junior was not only relatively competent but attractive too." Sherlock was shouting his (accurate) deductions whilst banging about in the kitchen; he returned balancing two large plates of Jalfrezi, rice and naan with one arm and two bottles of Cobra with the other. "And you are much too tired to cook, so I got take away."

"Thanks, mate! Er, you're not sickening for something, are you?" John grinned at Sherlock as he accepted the food in pleased surprise.

"No, no. Eat your dinner. I have news."

"A case?" asked John with his mouth full.

"Mm." Sherlock was shovelling dinner into his own mouth, as if to get a task out of the way.

"So how come you're eating?"

"Can't really do anything about it tonight, and might go on for a few days afterwards. May as well stock up on fuel before the real work starts." He glanced steadily at John as he chewed. "Plus, I need your assistance, and I knew you must have had busy nights – when you're not busy, you get bored and you text me. Do you know how knackered you look?" He waved a fork at John in a reproving gesture. "Must you take on these seven night stints? You know how ill-suited you are to lack of sleep."

"The money helps," replied John, patiently, "and I do get to sleep in between shifts; not like in Afghanistan."

Sherlock snorted impatiently, obviously weary of solicitous behaviour. "Yes, well, I could do without you moaning about your sore feet, so I thought we'd start on the case tomorrow, although I can brief you on it tonight."

"Very good of you", answered John, somewhere between genuine and sarcasm, continuing to eat as he waited for Sherlock to start.

"Do you remember Superintendent Mark Whittard?"

"Lestrade's boss?"

"Not directly, but he has a role in liaison, so he's had some dealings with him."

"In The Purple Trousers case?"

Sherlock glowered at him. "Must you keep coming up with ridiculous names for our cases?"

John shrugged. "It was appropriate enough."

"Oh, all right then, The Purple Trousers case, yes. That was Whittard."

"What about him?"

"Corrupt."

"Pardon?"

"Mycroft told me. I mean, I'd never had the best opinion of the man; he sends round constant memos on the internal mail list most of which are full of jargon but totally empty of content..."

"...how do you know?" cut in John, his voice blandly interested.

"Ach, I keep an eye on them; complete waste of my time in his case. Anyway", Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with his hand, "that's irrelevent. Point is, he's bent. As that poker." He scowled at the object in question, which was indeed decidedly wonky, following an interesting exchange with an irate client.

"And you're sure of this?" John spoke calmly, but there was a distinct gleam of interest in his eyes now.

"Yep, absolutely positive. The confirmation is already there, but we need more. Let me fill you in."

Sherlock recounted to John what Mycroft had already told him. John was a pleasingly intelligent audience, not interrupting with irrelevant questions, yet undoubtedly taking it all in. He looked increasingly grim as Sherlock spoke, and, as he reached the part about the datastick, he shifted uneasily in his chair, and laid his fork down.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"Has Mycroft asked you to steal the datastick?"

"However did you guess?" deadpanned the consulting detective, meticulously cleaning his plate with a chunk of naan.

John pushed his empty plate to one side, and rubbed his hands over his face, squirming agitatedly in his chair, before sitting forward and fixing Sherlock with a stare.

"Let me get this straight...your _brother_ – your big brother, who 'worries about you constantly' – wants _you_ to illegally extract the probably closely guarded personal property of a high ranking and probably morally bankrupt Scotland Yard official when he could probably have the pick of MI5 to help instead?"

"More likely MI6, you know, internal affair." Sherlock lounged back insouciantly in his chair, delicately shooting his cuffs. "But essentially, yes, you have the idea." He shot a lopsided grin at John. The grin broadened, as he leaned his head back in his chair, rolling his neck to find a comfortable position. "For some reason, he seems to think I'd do a better job." He rolled a glance in John's direction. "I might need your help, if you're willing."

"Sherlock!" hissed John. "Think this through. This isn't some second bit amateur, this is a _Chief Superintendent_ of bloody _Scotland Yard_. You're not a trained cracksman or cat burglar."

"Exciting, isn't it?" interrupted his insufferable friend, waggling his eyebrows with glee.

"I just think that there would be more suitable people to do this job. Honestly. I really really do."

"You're getting agitated. Does that mean you won't help?"

John was started to feel as if he was struggling against an irresistible tide. "No, no, I didn't say I wouldn't help. I Just. Don't. Think. You. Should do this job. You've been asked to look into that business at Coutts, for a large amount of money might I add. And I think you might of forgotten that I'm a doctor, and the GMC take a pretty dim view of criminal records."

"Dull."

"No Sherlock. Not dull, sensible."

"Dull."

"Self-preservatory."

"Dull."

"Not ridiculously self-destructive."

"Dull."

"All right, dull. But in this case, I think dull might just be good. Let someone else do it."

"Look, John. Mycroft thinks he may have a rotten apple in his own department, and he hasn't sniffed them out yet. He has trust issues."

"Is this about not wanting to admit to Mycroft that you can't do better than anyone else he can find?"

"Of course not," scoffed Sherlock, an uneasy look in his eyes. "It's about finally seeing a bit of activity around here – a challenge, for a change. I solved the Coutts business without leaving the sofa, I've already emailed them the solution, so next year's rent is sorted. And it's about the fact that, if we get a look at Whittard's little fan base, we can quite likely take down the whole house of cards with him. People traffickers, John. Sex offenders – the worst kind. You like helping people. You've spent the last week helping kids. Don't you want to help some more?"

The doctor winced at the implication. "OK. Why don't you tell me what your plan of action is, and what you'd expect me to do for you, and we'll consider it."

The detective beamed, and leapt into a crouch upon the arm chair.

"Excellent! I have it worked out. I'll need to see the layout, so Mycroft's getting me officially registered as a British Gas inspector. Casing the joint!" He rubbed his hands together gleefully. "I always thought I'd make a most effective criminal. And I knew I could rely on you."

"What do you need me to do?"

"There's an internet café opposite his house. I need you to monitor the people coming and going, and get some decent surveillance photos with this camera phone". He held the slim, expensive device up. "It's not possible to alter the time and date; it's satellite linked, so it's an indisputably accurate record of events. You can uplink it to a website I've had encrypted. It may be useful to have partial confirmation of what's on the stick."

"How do you know he does business from his house?"

"Because he can't do much of the dodgy stuff from work, and because Mycroft's leads tell me he does. Careless, I call it, but not everyone can be a Moriarty."

"What will you be doing?"

"I also need to get a bit of information about his habits." John thought Sherlock sounded deliberately vague, if not downright evasive, but he knew better than to attempt to get his frustrating friend to reveal more than the the bare bones of any plan, if he was lucky. "The actual stealing won't be for a week or so yet. Don't worry, I'll do the criminal part. I won't involve you in that."

"What? Oh yes you will. I'm coming with you."

"You are not coming."

"Then you are not going. I'm not letting you start breaking and entering without someone to keep a look out."

"Don't be silly, John. You were only pointing out a moment ago that the GMC won't take kindly to a criminal record."

"Sherlock." John's entire posture spoke conviction and sincerity. "I give you my word of honour - and I never broke it in my life - that I will take a cab straight to the police-station and give you away unless you let me share this with you."

Sherlock looked surprised, then touched. "Well, if you insist, Doctor. We have shared the same room for some time, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the same cell."

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

Sherlock was alone in the room again. Shakily, he forced himself to look at his hands. Stupid idea. He felt himself starting to grizzle. He was trembling all over, uncontrollably, like the time he had reacted to the anaesthetic at the dentists. _Interesting adrenergic reaction_ the tiny analytical part of his brain remaining catalogued, and he gave a hysterical half-giggle in response to it.

The snot running down his face was making his nose itch. His face felt impossibly puffy, and his eyeballs physically swollen. His entire body prickled with dry and fresh sweat. He could smell it, pungent, alongside the horrid smell of vomit. He tried to force his mind onto these manageable unpleasantnesses, and away from the pain, but it was a losing battle. The sight of his messed-up hands held a dreadful hypnotic fascination.

Six finger and thumb nails gone. The little finger of his left hand was broken from the sheer force required to extract the nail. That had been the second one they'd done, and the one that had first caused him to throw up over himself. He had intended to grit his teeth and remain stoically silent to begin with, but the absolute visceral awfulness of the pain had been too much for him straight away. Nothing was worse than physical pain, he discovered, no matter what people may philosophise about mental anguish.

He had started to cry and beg on the third nail.

_No, no, please don't please don't please don't hurt me again_.

Yet he hadn't told them anything at all until after the forth nail.

They had then run the teeth of the pliers over the raw surfaces they had created, and it had been indescribable. All his muscles hurt from his whole body convulsive attempts to escape.

Then it had been his toes' turn. He had wept that he "couldn't" tell them anything.

After the first toenail, he had shouted out names of people who had the datastick that were blatantly untrue, like Lestrade, who he knew was at a conference in Newcastle, hopefully out of range. They didn't believe him. He had screamed out John's name in the same tone – that of a man who will say anything to escape pain. This did not require any of his considerable acting skills at all.

They continued the pattern ten times, six on his hands, four on his feet, and the writhing, howling Sherlock knew he would have to tell them what they wanted to know. He could barely remember the truth, but it didn't matter, he would just tell them anything to _make them stop_. Suddenly, there was a hard slap across his face, then another, and it focussed him on the voice of the shorter man again.

"We're stepping out now, Sherlock. This is just the beginning. A taster. We'll leave you to compose your thoughts for a little while, and when we come back, we'll be bringing more toys to show you. You'll have to tell us the truth. Just think on it for a little while."

His brutalised nail beds were red and pulpy. Oh, how could it get worse? His fevered imagination immediately supplied many, many ways – no doubt their intention when they left, allowing him to dwell on his situation.

He sniffled pathetically, on his own in the cold little room. He desperately longed for help. He also had a peculiar, unaccostomed yearning for somebody to comfort him, to hold him. Usually self-sufficient as a cat, Sherlock Holmes would give anything for a friendly face right now. Mycroft, Mum, Mrs Hudson would do. John most of all. Anybody. Anybody who wasn't those men in the masks with their "toys" bringing excruciating, unbearable pain.

He forced his quaking mind away from here, away from this ordeal, and doggedly rehearsed the scenario he would tell. Making himself believe it. It was working. As his brain began to whirr into action, his woes faded a little, and he soared into the realm of pure intellect.

His fragile cocoon of calm shattered as the door opened behind him. It seemed to take an interminably long time for the footfalls to cross the short distance so that they were facing him. His lungs burned, his heart raced.

Then he saw what else the taller man held in his hand this time, and he let out a low moan of abject terror, before his tongue started babbling of its own accord...

"_No no no no no no no no no no..._"

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

_Ooh, I feel nasty just for writing this. May have to post versions of subsequent chapters with an M rating. Or will there be a rescue before we get to that point?_

_ Who wants this datastick so very much?_

_ If you want to find out, please spur me on with a review, and await the next chapter! Thanks so much to all you stars who have reviewed already – I really appreciate your encouragement._

_ Special accolades to anybody who recognises the few quotations scattered around in here, by the way!_

_ Feel free if you have ideas or suggestions. I know where this is going, but the devil's in the details. _


	4. Chapter 4

_**This is the T rated version. If you want the gory details, go for the M-rated section for the more graphic version of this story.**_

**Chapter 4**

_Twelve Days Earlier_

Sherlock inspected himself critically in the mirror. Weatherbeaten, tanned skin, grizzled grey hair, thinning slightly on top, grey goatee (particularly horrid, but one must make sacrifices), along with British Gas anorak and ID badge, naming him as William Escott. A little putty altering the shape of his nose, and brown contact lenses, and he was certain there was no chance of recognition.

To test his hypothesis, before he called at Whittard's house, he stopped for a coffee at the internet café across the street. Taking a table near the window, he dropped a few coins from his wallet, sending them rolling across the floor. The blond-haired man at an adjacent computer bent to help pick them up, and returned them to him with a small smile.

"Thanks, mate." Faint East-end accent, gravelly from too many cigarettes.

"No problem." Not the faintest reaction. Sherlock grinned to himself. John hadn't recognised him at all. No doubt he would twig as soon as he saw the British Gas inspector knocking upon Whittard's door.

He drained his coffee whilst watching John surreptitiously. The doctor was good at surveillance, no doubt about that. He was quietly tapping away at his keyboard, and anyone glancing over his shoulder would see what appeared to be an emerging novel from the next would-be J.K. Rowling. Every now and then, he would appear to be checking the time or a text on his phone. Even Sherlock could only tell that he was taking a photograph by deducing it – the postman had called, and the phone had come up simultaneously.

Sherlock crossed the street and knocked upon the door. John's surveillance had shown that nobody was at home for the two days previously, but today, Whittard was in. The Superintendent answered.

"Morning."

"Mornin', Sir. Here to read the meter. Is this a convenient time?"

"Yeah, no problem. It's in the cupboard under the stairs, with the boiler. Bit of a mess, I'm afraid."

"That's all right, we're used to it, Sir. Yet to find Harry Potter, but everythin' else goes." Whittard chuckled politely, the children's coats hanging by the front door suggesting he would get the reference. This was going well. He was completely relaxed and unsuspicious.

Sherlock scribbled down the meter reading in his pad, then took a small gamble.

"Your pressure gauge is skipping up and down a bit. Any of your radiators need bleeding, Sir?" _Almost all houses have a radiator which is temperamental, and no-one ever gets around to fixing it._

"Uh, yeah, the one in the upstairs bathroom is a bit hit and miss."

"Tell ya what, I'll sort that out for ya if ya like – 's only a five minute job, and I've got a rad key on me. I'll trade ya for a cuppa! Problem is, it can be a nightmare when the wevver gets cold and the air contracts. Makes the pressure drop, and the 'ole system can gum up. Might need to top the boiler back up wiv the fill loop after. Don't tell anyone, though, I'm not meant to do repairs when I'm meter readin', not insured, see, but I'm a fully qualified boiler engineer, and I'd feel awful leavin' ya boiler like that."

He was pleased to see the politely glazed expression on Whittard's face in response to his garrulous tech-talk, along with the genuine appreciation at this good-natured gesture. The man may be steeped in corruption, but it hadn't completely obliterated the decent, middle class streak that probably still ran through him.

"That's very kind of you. I won't say a word! Tea or coffee?"

"Tea, please. Strong, two sugars. First though, where's this bathroom?" He gestured for Whittard to lead the way, and he unconsciously obeyed. Sherlock wanted his timing to coincide with the kettle boiling. He committed the layout of the upstairs to memory as he went.

He kept up a flow of small talk as he bled the radiator (there was very little basic household maintenance he couldn't cope with; the hopeless act he sometimes put on was for convenience). Whittard seemed content enough to chat; he was getting a free service, after all.

"Right, that's sorted. I'll just check the pressure in the boiler again. That tea would come in right 'andy now."

"No problem". The superintendent disappeared off to the kitchen. Sherlock rapidly topped the boiler back up with the filling loop, then quietly stole over to the keys he had spotted in the bowl on the hall table. It was the work of seconds to take a putty impression of each of them and place the putty in a tin in his coat, before going to stand by the kitchen door.

"All up and runnin'. Should work much better now. Ah, lovely, thanks". He took the tea, and slurped it noisily – disgusting, but it was part of his role. He and his host made non-committal small talk about house prices and the congestion charge, then he handed back his mug and left, easy entry to the property in his pocket.

Sherlock had contemplated effecting his break in that night, but John had information that evening which made him reconsider.

"His kids have showed up; looks like they're staying over, and there's another girl with them; au pair or something I'd guess." He showed the consulting detective the pictures.

"Typical of his type", sniffed Sherlock. "Divorced, only gets the kids at weekends, and hires a stranger to look after them rather than spend time with them."

"So speaks the parenting expert."

"Oh, don't give me that. There's a reason I don't have kids. Anyway, you agree with me." John shrugged and grinned good-naturedly.

"Nice disguise, by the way. Never have guessed it was you. The nose was particularly good. You should take up heavy drinking."

"And spoil my good looks? Anyway, kids and an au pair in the house racks up the chances of being heard a bit too much for my liking. I think I'll wait till they're comfortably back at their Mum's. For now, there's another potential opportunity... put something nice on, we're going out." He jumped to feet, effervescent with the thrill of the chase.

"What sort of nice?" called John at the retreating back of Sherlock, disappearing into his bedroom.

"Not a tatty old jumper. The game is on, and it won't do for you to be under-dressed."

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

The pain stopped for a moment. His chest was heaving, the air he could pull in insufficient, red-hazed panic hammering through his ears.

"Where is the flashdisk, Sherlock?"

He told a lie, choked out wetly, snot and drool making his voice bubble as he spoke. Too obviously a lie. The punishment was applied again. And again. And again. And again. They didn't even give him a chance to speak properly; there was no way he could have coordinated a sentence, only half-pleas, half-profanities pouring from him, along with occasionally begging them to ask anybody else whose name came to mind. And again, enough to separate him from his sanity.

The torture stopped again. This time, when he told them where to find the datastick, they could read the truth in his terrified eyes.

"That was the Intermediate Class", murmured Smaller. "You'd better hope we don't need to move you up a level."

They left him alone, a weeping, shivering mess, leaving the culinary torch on the floor in front of him to remind him what to expect if they didn't get what they wanted.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

_I think you're sensible to not go for the grim M version - I still want him out of there so much…. but will he get out of there in time? As always, grateful for reviews. Thanks so much for those of you who've reviewed already, and well done to the people who spotted the canon quotes._


	5. Chapter 5

_**Again, there is an alternative, tougher chapter, but this is the edited down, less traumatic version!**_

**Chapter 5**

_Twelve days earlier_

Sherlock appeared to be pacing the room when John emerged from his room after what he considered a very reasonable interval, although his own unique brand of pacing involved not touching the floor, using only the furniture.

"At last! Are you ready?" He looked John up and down, in order to answer his own question. "Well, it's an improvement on your normal attire at least. I'm pleased to see you do own _some _clothes that you don't appear to have rescued from an Oxfam reject bag."

"Are we going somewhere?" John's tone was approaching barking, and Sherlock's mouth quirked as he turned his back and led the way. John followed, really quite fashionably dressed in a quirkily well-tailored shirt and trousers.

They headed towards Whittard's house in yet another miraculously omnipresent taxi. They disembarked outside a quiet bar a little way down the road.

"Right, John. You stay here, and wait for me to text you."

"What, sit in the bar on my own?"

"Yes. What's the problem? People will just assume you've been stood up or something."

"You're the bloody limit, Sherlock Holmes. You do know that?" Yet again, he was speaking to Sherlock's elegantly coutured retreating back, but the detective did turn around to give him a wink and click his teeth as he whisked off.

Sighing, John trailed to the bar, ordered a beer and packet of crisps, and sat rather forlornly in a secluded corner, playing self-consciously with his phone.

Sherlock strode down the street, resisting the urge to whistle. Whittard's was just ahead. No-one saw Sherlock melt into the shadows. Nor did anybody see him quietly take up a position from which he was easily able to watch the front door without being detected.

After about thirty-five minutes, the door opened, and a young, blonde woman stepped out. She wore a short skirt and high heels, with a coat that looked insufficiently warm, and she was chatting animatedly on her phone. She did not see the silent figure slipping from the concealed spot behind her, and begin to quietly dog her progress.

She arrived at the bus-stop at the end of the street, and within ten minutes, a bus arrived. She climbed aboard, not noticing the anonymous young man who sauntered on board behind her, engrossed in his phone.

She sat languidly, her face side lit in the patchwork orange glow of the street lamps, watching the scenery scroll by. It became less residential, more bars and cafés lining the street, and people milling around in their weekend finery. The young man sat in front of her on the bus had stopped fiddling with his phone, and was slumped in his seat, leaning his head against the glass. She did not see that he was quietly studying her reflection.

She routed around for her handbag as she neared her stop. She did not notice the young man get off the bus in front of her, again fiddling with his phone. She noisily joined a group of friends outside a low-lit bar with chic retro furniture and equally modish music playing loudly, and they entered together, laughing animatedly.

Her erstwhile shadow ambled a few yards down the street to another bus stop, still keeping the bar doorway in view as he leaned nonchalantly against the pole. A bus drew up, and John Watson descended from it.

Sherlock straightened.

"Ah, finally. You took your time."

"I was on a _bus_ Sherlock. The bus _you_ texted me to catch, with no explanation, might I add, after dumping me in a half deserted bar on my own for forty-five minutes! _How _ was I supposed to make it go any faster?"

The effect of his words was ruined somewhat by Sherlock wandering off again, and him having to trot to keep up, plus the impossible man was chuckling slightly at John's indignation as he walked, drawing a reluctant giggle in return. Annoyed and amused in equal measure, he nevertheless followed interestedly enough, salving his self respect by muttering as he did so.

"Like I said. The absolute bloody limit."

Ignoring him, Sherlock sauntered into the bar where Whittard's au pair was now sipping a cocktail and giggling with her friends. John showed no sign of recognising her.

Sherlock ordered a round (partly to avert further complaining from his flatmate), and carried their drinks over to a dark corner table where he could easily observe the au pair without being obtrusive. Fortunately, the bar was just full enough to allow this.

"What are we doing, Sherlock?" Intriguing, how John's hair seemed to stand taller on end when he was cross.

"We're just two people who like each other out having fun, aren't we?" _Oops, he really is cross. I'm going to get his beer tipped over my head in minute. Not good for remaining inconspicuous._ "OK, look at the group of girls by the window – don't let them see you looking. Do you recognise the blonde with the long straight hair?"

"No, I don… hang on, isn't that Whittard's au pair?"

"Yes. And before you ask, we're watching her because it may have a direct bearing on the case."

"How?"

"Oh, come on! Allow me some mystery. Yorrick doesn't grill me like this."

"He is dead, though." _Good. Still mildly exasperated, but good humour restored at least past beer throwing point._

Sherlock put a little effort into entertaining John, regaling him with stories of previous cases not yet mentioned on his blog, the conversation then meandering along easily enough, so that the night might have passed enjoyably even without the covert observations and deductions he was compiling about the unsuspecting au pair. This was as successful as he had hoped.

She was single, twenty three to twenty five, her accent Eastern European, Romanian, if he was correct. Her English was good, lightly accented, so presumably improving it was not her main reason for working in this country. Going by the appraising looks she cast at the men who walked past, she was not planning on remaining single for long. She already had a couple of interested prospects, judging by her accessories. Her name was Aggie.

Sherlock watched carefully, reading which appraising glances turned to genuine interest. Right. She liked tall, fair hair, athletic looking, bronzed types.

She was out again tomorrow night. Good. He had the information he required.

"Let's go, John."

"Get what you wanted?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Still don't have the faintest idea what it was."

"Mm."

John snorted, and continued to mutter under his breath, but cheered up as Sherlock's innate taxi-finding abilities struck gold again. They headed back to Baker Street.

_Eleven days earlier_

The next night, John returned from his continued surveillance of Whittard's house to find Sherlock on the cusp of going out.

"What the… what are you doing now? You look tangerine!"

The Sherlock facing him was sporting fair highlights, a fake tan, and City-boy, rather loud, fashionable clothes, not at all like his usual quietly expensive garb. John was also sure that his friend was not as muscular as he appeared to be. He was intrigued.

"This new beefcake look - either you've discovered some amazingly fast acting steroid, or your disguises have just got better."

Sherlock grinned. _God, he's even bleached his teeth!_ "Good, isn't it? I had the clothes especially made for a case a while back – I'll have to get them updated soon, this ridiculous style will go out of fashion pretty quickly. The muscle structure's made of light rubber foam sewn into the fabric. Transmits heat nicely too, so it feels like flesh – see."

He seized John's hand and made him grab his thigh. John pulled back, laughing.

"I can take your word for it without groping you, honestly!"

"Your loss!" called his flatmate over his shoulder. "Don't wait up!"

Sherlock wrapped the cheap cagoule over the ghastly yet expensive puffer jacket around himself as he neared Whittard's. Again, he silently watched for the girl. He hoped he was right in his deduction that she had another night out planned. He was right. Evidently her duties did not extend beyond the children's bed-time, and Whittard was home tonight.

This time, he had Googled in advance all the buses that would take her to the nearby nightlife, so was able to pre-empt her and be waiting at her bus stop, hood pulled up and anonymous. Again, she did not notice him follow as she descended from the bus. He watched where she went, then skipped into the bar next door, discarded his cagoule, and emerged as the swaggering "tangerine-tinted twat" (John's words) he intended to be tonight.

He picked his moment to enter the bar; when no-one else was pushing their way in or out, so he would attract attention, and he rolled his shoulders and made to put his phone away with extravagant gestures, so the movement caught her eye. He then met her gaze, as if by accident, and quirked a tiny, half smile at her, unzipping his coat to reveal the promise of a good physique underneath.

He could almost feel her interest. He ordered a drink from the bar, and perched on the bar stool, drawing out his phone, appearing to be texting, but every now and again glancing in her direction; not enough to look like a creep, but enough to establish awareness. He could see her whispering and giggling with her friends in his peripheral vision, and hear snatches of conversation. Yes, she was definitely interested. The next time he "accidentally" caught her eye again, he held it and smiled, and she returned it.

His phone then buzzed – he had set the alarm – and he picked it up, ostensibly checking a text. He frowned in annoyance. She was still looking. He then glanced back towards her. She was openly inviting his approach now. He wandered up to her, and sat down next to her, encompassing her friends in a broad grin, then turning to lock eyes with her alone.

"Hi! I'm Will. I couldn't help noticing you. Can I buy you and your friends a drink?"

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

Right at this moment, Sherlock felt as if waiting was the worst thing in the world. He was sure he would reverse this opinion as soon as they started on him again. But for now, as his head and his various wounds throbbed with miserable insistence, his mind _wouldn't_ _stop_ dwelling over what had already happened to him, and what was to come.

He had played his best card. He had set up this little blind whilst still striding about confident and at liberty, enjoying the unconventional route the case had led him down. Set it up for this very eventuality, because he was careful, because he thought of himself as clever. He had never really truly _considered_ this outcome. Only included it as an intellectual possibility, not how it might _feel_. If anyone ever stopped to _truly_ consider the potential horrific ramifications of their actions, they could surely never bring themselves to do anything more dangerous than crossing the road.

His captors would therefore find a datastick taped to the inside of the cistern in the Shepherd's Bush underground station toilets. When they opened it, it would be password protected. No doubt they would be able to hack into it eventually, and they would find three words - Storn Iver Marling – on the file. He had chosen the words from the music he had been listening to that day, and because they sounded sufficiently mysterious and code-like. If they did not suspect him of duplicity early on, they would eventually turn to him again, and they would have plenty of time to do their worst. He had not wanted to have to use his principle blind so early, but he had not been able to contain himself any longer.

He had no energy left to repeat more lies to himself. He had kept on with it, up to a point, but his mind kept sneaking back to past and potential tortures, like a tongue seeking a freshly empty tooth socket.

He felt ill as well as in pain. Flu-like symptoms, shivery, achy, hot and cold. Terrible misery. Every so often, oily tears would leak out of the corner of his eyes and slide down his nose. He would lick at them instinctively, despite their saltiness, as his mouth and throat felt so parched.

The pressure just from being in one position on a hard surface for a prolonged period was becoming intolerable as well, and, if he had longed for rescue or release before, the wish was so much more potent now.

The inactivity was like an extreme version of boredom, forcing his racing mind to turn against itself. There was so little so see or hear in this room; he strained his ears for clues as to his whereabouts, and all his other senses for familiar scents, vibrations, anything, but could detect nothing that was not emanating from himself.

In contrast, when he did finally hear distant footsteps, it was as if somebody had clashed a cymbal in his ear, he jumped convulsively, and began to sweat and tremble again.

The footsteps were coming closer. They were moving fast, sounding angry or determined. _Please let it be someone who can help me…. please don't let it be them._

The door opened with a crash, and two people stormed into the room to face him.

It was his captors. He could tell by their posture that they were angry. His blind hadn't even brought him as much time as he'd hoped.

"You must think we're really stupid, Sherlock. You send us off on a wild goose chase – do you expect us to be _pleased_?"

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

_ Ominous… is time running out?_

_ Please do read and review… gory details follow on from this point over on the M-rated section, but if you don't fancy it, I don't blame you, and chapter 6 will be up very soon._


	6. Chapter 6

_**Again, there is an alternative, tougher chapter, but this is the edited down, less traumatic version! (Although there is very little difference this time)**_

**Chapter 6**

_Twelve Days Earlier_

Aggie was all Sherlock had hoped she would be. A nice enough girl; but a little avaricious, and enjoying keeping her eyes and her options open. Responded very well to flattery, and ready to view him as a prospect. He watched her compute his worth as he told her, with enough of a display of embarrassment to convince her he was self-aware and had a sense of humour, that he was an estate agent.

Good, that one hit the mark. She liked that streak of wide-boy, liked the solvency (still employed in the recession, new Rolex – thanks for the loan, _Norton Fine Jewellers_), the giving potential. Solicitor or doctor would have made him less attainable, journalist or fitness coach too likely to be skint, soldier too likely to bugger off abroad.

Buying all her friends a drink without batting an eyelid impressed her too, as did the flashy wallet and the Boxter carkeys (horrid car, definitely what an estate agent would drive, but she'd like it).

The friends were non-too subtly looking to leave them alone together, obviously deciding Aggie was set for the night. He would have to drop a hint to her about the dangers of going off with strange men when all this was over, but for now, her eagerness was welcome.

He invited all of them to the flashy bar down the road, that charged ten pounds just for entry, and the Champagne cocktails fifteen pounds each. The friends made poor excuses, but encouraged Aggie to accompany him. Well-meaning but poor judgement. They were throwing her to him.

She was glowing with triumph as he escorted her into Infinity (tacky China White wannabe place, drearily state of the art). He paid for one of the extortionate cocktails for her, sticking to Guinness himself. They talked, she exhibiting clear signs of attraction, and he ensured she would consciously or sub-consciously pick up similar signals. A little touching, holding eye contact, all the dull sort of stuff Cosmopolitan and the like would teach you.

She was rather likeable actually, and definitely attractive. She could maintain a conversation which was slightly better than dull; she was well travelled, and spoke animatedly about her tame adventures. A lively sense of humour, and a certain level-headedness as she disparaged various people added zest to her company. Listened well too, and laughed gleefully at his own stories. He would not wish to spend a long time with her, but she was fine in small doses. There would be definite bonuses to this case; he was confident by now that she would enjoy a liaison whilst being sensible enough to not break her heart over it, and it had been a while. Sherlock viewed all his bodily needs and appetites in the same way; to be ignored when necessary and indulged when convenient – he was no monk.

Her hand was resting, mock-casually, against his thigh, and she was moving closer, staring into his blue-tinted contact lenses. A beat, and then she was leaning in to him, and he was reciprocating, and the tentative, polite kiss was developing a tempo which led him to believe his British Gas impersonation had probably been unnecessary as a means to obtain access to Whittard's house.

Sure enough: "Can we go to your place?" she purred in his ear.

"Yours is probably better. I'm having to put up my brother for a few weeks, and he's a little shit. I've let him have a few friends round as well, and the flat's probably a state."

"Oh, that's a shame, I cannot. My boss, he is not so keen on me bringing people back, and the kids are there. He sleeps like a dead log, but they wake up often, and I will be afraid they might disturb us, and then tell the boss tomorrow."

_Sleeps like a dead log. Interesting, at least_. "Could I just come in for a coffee?" _Could see the code for the burglar alarm_.

She liked him being keen, especially as he ran his tongue behind her ear as he growled the question into it.

"Honestly, he'd kill me. He does not mind me going out, but is very insistent on me not bringing anybody back." _Disappointing. May just have to abandon this; that alarm can be disabled from the outside, even if it is dangerous._ "Although…" _ooh, what's that grin about?_ "… he is going away for ten days with Samantha and the kids tomorrow afternoon. Skiing. I'm house sitting. Why don't you find me somewhere to show me what I can expect, and I maybe will let you come and help?"

Sherlock managed to fix a delighted and salacious grin onto his face, following it up with a complex entwining of tongues, whilst he considered the implications of her words.

_Going away for ten days? What for? He'll take the datastick with him, surely, which means I probably can't get to it before Mycroft's summit – he'll fret. Mmm. She bites… that's actually very nice. Does he want to be out of the country when this big delivery Mycroft suspected arrives? Surely not; he'll want to make sure nothing goes wrong. Where's that hand going? Two can play at that game – ooh, stockings! Excellent. Going away for ten days suggests he feels he has time to wait. Taking the ex-wife and kids. Wouldn't do that willingly, so been pressured into it. Busy at work since the Purple Trousers case… oh, now I'm at it. Bloody John's Blog. Busy at work until recently, taken opportunity to whisk ex-wife and kids away… hang on, skiing. There was a Val D'Isere bronchure in his bathroom. When I went there to look into that business with The Royal Idiot, the flights were massively cheaper for seven or fourteen days. Ten days suggests he has something to get back for… or the tariffs have changed, have to check that. Atta girl! She really knows what she wants. Need to give it five minutes before I stand up to leave. Now, is it legitimate or illegitimate work? Illegitimate, surely. Nothing on the Yard intranet important enough to call him back. Could just find the idea of two weeks with Samantha unbearable… no, he'd make it a week. _

_Right, let's work on the idea that there's something big to get back for in ten days. I'll need to keep her interested 'til then. Is there something fun I can do in the meantime? Hm, I think yes. Right, The Tangerine Tree Hotel. Decent, not too pricey, they won't recognise me, and nice, big, white beds…._

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

The walls were closing in… he was certain this room had been bigger before. Three metres by… what was it? Three… He couldn't remember…. His mind, his so called agile, razor-sharp mind, was frozen; stuttering along cognitive cart tracks, hopelessly enfeebled. . Not so high and mighty now, sneered a voice in his head. Whose voice? Anyone, everyone sneered at him… maybe he deserved this…. John didn't sneer at him…. Taller had spoken kindly to him, before he had left the room. The walls were closing in…. _Listen to yourself…thoughts fluttering helplessly…_. Pathetic

Just like they'd said. Just before they left after the latest round, when they thought he was unconscious. _Not tough enough… no real stamina_. Taller had even pitied him… he had been lying on the ground at their feet, still strapped to the chair, and Taller had righted him, swung the chair back up on it's sinisterly designed hinges. Spoken kindly to him. Wanted him to tell them the truth, so they could stop hurting him… he felt guilty. His mind was hazy, rattling around like a frightened bird inside his head…

They were coming back. Sherlock's diaphragm froze with dread. The sense-memory of his last session was so potent his head span. And their final words, as they left the room. Oh, God. _More conventional methods_, _rack up the pain a bit_. They were right, he wasn't tough enough, he was weak and pathetic. He was bound to crack, and he would betray John, and they would do this to John, and it would all be his fault. There was someone else he was meant to be protecting too, but couldn't remember her name...what was her name? _No!_ Not good... don't remember it, delete it... _Think, Sherlock._

Lucidity returned, briefly, as the door handle turned. With a convulsive, desperate effort, Sherlock threw himself backwards, every vestige of strength concentrated towards propelling himself floorwards.

The crack, transmitted through the board strapped to him, of his head striking the hard floor, would have been sickening, but Sherlock had achieved his aim. He heard nothing more.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

_I think Sherlock was having more fun at the beginning of this chapter than the end of it…. and that crack on the head sounds very serious… could he be…. no, surely not?_

_Please read and review! More soon, I promise…_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Again, there is an alternative, more hard core chapter, but this is the edited down, less graphic version! **_

**Chapter 7**

_Twelve days earlier_

"I should be getting back", groaned Aggie, stretching luxuriantly beneath the white sheets. "Mark wishes me to wake up the children, and he will be in a foul mood if everything isn't just right."

"Well, let me see you safely back, at least."

"It is OK, I'll get a taxi."

"Allow me."

Sherlock leapt to his feet, and padded to retrieve his 'phone from his discarded trousers. She watched him appreciatively, and he felt relieved that his reduced bulk when unclothed seemed to have escaped her notice. He had anticipated his good skin, greyhound-like muscle tone, and his unparalleled skill between the sheets, would be enough to impress her, despite her usual preference for the bovine muscle-bound type, but it was always nice to have his deductions confirmed.

Sherlock sat beside Aggie in the taxi, allowing her to kiss him now and then, although finding the process rather dull now most of the motivation was passed.

Disappointingly, she wouldn't allow him to accompany her up the garden path to the front door. He had anticipated as much, but had hoped for more. Instead, he arranged to meet her in two days' time – he felt it may have spooked her to push for an earlier meeting; but too long and he risked her rethinking the liaison.

Sherlock headed back to Baker Street for some well-earned sleep. Aggie watched his retreating back thoughtfully.

_Ten days earlier_

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Aggie from behind, making her giggle as she unlocked Whittard's front door. _Finally!_

She stepped over the threshold. _I really hope she hasn't neglected to set the bloody burglar alarm while Whittard's away, or all this could have been for nothing… no, good, she's going to disarm it_.

He sucked on her earlobe as she started to put in the code. Ticklish, she giggled again, squirming slightly… but the ruse had worked – she had not seen him watch her put in the code.

408232.

Good. The number was pleasingly random – evidently not a rearrangement of somebody's birthday or numeric representation of initials. This hadn't been a wasted effort after all.

_May as well keep up the pretence for now. I can have a good look around the house later, get a good feel for the layout, see if there's any filing cabinets or desks I need to unlock for the datastick._

Aggie was now quite persistently leading him towards the master bedroom. _Bad girl! When the cat's away…_ later would be just as good a time for reconnaissance.

She was stripping off his – now unpadded – clothes hungrily, and he turned his attention to assisting her, still taking a mental note of the location of the bedroom in relation to the study. Sufficiently distant that it was highly unlikely such a prodigious sleeper as Aggie described Whittard to be would hear anything.

_I wish she'd stop that fatuous giggling. Trying to match it really isn't adding to the ambience_.

He tossed her onto her back. _Time to shut her up… or at least, stop the cackling._

Much later, quite pleasantly sated himself, and with a positively extinguished girl slumped next to him, he slipped out from under the covers, and set off for the bathroom. He wanted to get a feel for the house in the dark; its shadows, shapes, squeaking floor boards, likely trip points.

On his way back, he crept towards the study. It was unlocked. He crossed to look out of the window. Good. He could actually station John in the garden, chuck the datastick down to him when he had it. The biggest danger from housebreaking would be the light from his torch alerting passers-by. John could warn him if necessary. The window raised with barely a whisper. _Good alternative escape route, too. That creeper would take my weight._

He returned to Aggie. The locks would wait until tomorrow – light was better for them. His role as an estate agent would give him the perfect excuse for nosiness. She gave a little mewl as he climbed back in beside him, instinctively draping her legs over his. _She'll make the man who brought her that Pandora bracelet very happy when she's got this out of her system_, he thought, kissing her neck as he settled to allow himself a few hours of indulgent sleep.

He was less charitable when the first thing he heard on awakening was that infernal giggle again. He thought he had heard something else a moment before, something familiar, but his conscious mind couldn't process it yet.

"Good morning, Sexy!"

She was viewing him with mischief in her eyes. _Obviously a morning person then. Ugh!_

"What're y'up to, Aggie?"

"Have you ever seen the Fat App?"

"The what?"

"Fat Booth, for the i-phone. It's very funny, look!"

She held up her phone, and showed him a photograph of himself, obviously taken just before he woke up. So that's what that noise must have been. She shook the phone, and suddenly the photograph morphed, making him grossly obese with an obscene double chin.

He was initially discomfited – he preferred no one had photographic evidence of him in disguise – but it surely didn't matter, he would just have to see to it that she angrily deleted his photograph when this thing was over. The thought of using this childishly pleasing gadgetry to enhance a picture of Mycroft enabled him to join her in gleeful chuckles.

She showed him "fatted" versions of all her friends – oh, taken last night, as the red-haired one had had her hair cut, and that top she was wearing was new season. So Aggie had dissected him, then. Ah well.

He then took the opportunity to thoroughly explore. The inside of the study would present no problems.

"He is very jealous about this room", said Aggie, obviously savouring her rebellion as she entered the forbidden zone. "Will not let any of us in it, and he is locking it every night when he goes to bed." _No sign of a key, but this is a simple cylindrical tumbler lock – easy enough to pick_. "He spends ages on his computer – I bet he is looking at dirty pictures on the Internet, although sometimes strange looking people go in there with him."

"What sort of strange looking people?"

"The sort of people police in this country should not be knowing!" She laughed. "The police in my country are not honest, so I'm not surprised. You must not go saying things though, I do not want to lose my job, and he is quite nice to me most of the time."

He laughed indulgently along with her. He told her he had a viewing at ten, and was working all day. He neatly sidestepped her invitation to see her again that night, and instead renegotiated for three days time. _Want to keep her sweet until I've got the stick – I may need her again._

She followed him out of the door – she planned to visit her brother. They parted in the street, and he left with a spring in his step. He did not see the slightly more thoughtful stare that yet again followed him.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

Aggie frowned as she walked to the bus stop. Then her expression cleared.

She hadn't seen her brother Matt for two weeks, and always enjoyed his company… although his slightly dodgy aura had started to mildly concern her. No, unfair. He had left his bad ways behind him. He was a good brother now. He had got her this job, through his boss. (She did not like his boss, feeling instinctively that he was a Bad Man, but at least it had been kind, finding her work). Matt liked to keep up to date with all her news as well; far more than he used to. He liked to know what she did, what her boss was like, and just little things about her. He did not disapprove of her seeing boys, which was a good thing. She would hint at the fun she was having, and he would pretend to be appalled, and put his hands over his ears, and tell her not to make him think about his little sister doing such things. He would laugh at the Fat App too; she was looking forward to seeing his face when he saw his own computer-enhanced double chin. She would have to show him the picture of Marie; he was hot on Marie.

Smiling to herself, forgetting her earlier slight puzzlement, Aggie hopped onto her bus.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

_Pain pain pain pain pain…. everywhere….please please my head my head my head…. it's pulling, tearing tearing tearing, ripping, oh please someone stop it, my head my head, they're pulling my hair off…. Oh nonononono, my chest now, my chest hurts…. tearing… what's happening? Who's shouting? It hurts my head. Make them stop, please make them stop… oh god, what are they doing now, get off me get off me not there please not there get off me don't don't don't IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS MAKE THEM SHUT UP!_

_I want John._

There was pain. So much pain. Sherlock's subconscious would not shelter him, the pain was digging him out, dragging him into the open, shapes and sensations around him beginning to coalesce, to sharpen, to begin to make sense, a terrible, horrifying sense that he did not want to acknowledge, but knew he had no choice.

_Why is pain red? Synaesthesia, that's what it's called. Perceiving sensory information from one modality, like touch, through another, like vision. OH GOD! IT HURTS!_

He was spiralling downwards through the red haze. Now he could hear himself moaning, but he knew he was incoherent. He could identify some of the sensory input. They were shouting at him. A hysterical half giggle, half sob, escaped him.

The shouting stopped. Men were speaking, normal volumes, but it still hurt. They left him then, but he knew they would be back. They must have said so. He couldn't really remember. At least he could sleep. Blissful sleep. It was cushioning him, and he sank into its embrace with a sigh of relief.

More comfort. Something wonderful was drizzled between his parched lips. Someone was softly running a deliciously cool, damp cloth over the tender spot on his head. Soft words, soothing. The words were a little indistinct, but the tone lulled him; the hands were so gentle; he leant into them. Someone was upset. A whisper, far, far away.

"Oh, Sherlock. What's happened to you?" He didn't recognise the voice - his ears were buzzing, fuzzily – but that kindness, softness…. surely it could only be….

_"John?"_

"It's OK, Sherlock. Don't try and talk. Why did they do this to you?"

"They wanted the stick." The cool cloth stroked again, a hand smoothed his sweaty hair off his face.

"What did you tell them?"

"I didn't want them to know you had it. I can't remember what I told them. They hurt me, John." Tears were rolling down his face, from behind his tightly shut eyes.

"Poor Sherlock. You're safe now. You're with me."

"Where am I?"

"Well, where am I likely to be?"

"You were meant to be waiting for me in the Diogenes." The cloth continued its caress, but Sherlock suddenly had the horrible feeling something was very, very wrong. He was still bound to the chair. There was a strange taste in his mouth. His eyes snapped open.

A man in a David Cameron mask was sitting next to him. He sighed as he recognised the dawning awareness in Sherlock's eyes. He called across the room:

"We need to find John Watson. He's telling the truth this time, but I don't know if we'll get much more out of him."

Icy dread propelled him into full consciousness. Smaller regarded him, eyes glittering strangely beneath the eye-holes.

"The Diogenes? Well, thank you, Sherlock, that can't be too hard to find. Although perhaps you'd like to just save us all some time and just tell us?"


	8. Chapter 8

_**Again, there is an alternative, more hard core chapter, but this is the edited down, less graphic version!**_

**Chapter 8**

_Nine days earlier_

Sherlock virtually skipped back to Baker Street. John was sitting at a clean corner of the kitchen table in his dressing gown, munching on a bowl of cereal. Sherlock was rather proud of his thoughtfulness in in texting John that he did not have to continue his surveillance whilst Whittard was away.

"Morning."

"Morning." John regarded him narrowly. "You're looking very cheerful this morning. Had a breakthrough?"

Sherlock grinned. He had not seen much of John in the last few days, and was looking forward to showing off his progress with the case.

"Mm. John, you wouldn't consider me the romantic type, would you?"

"No. I seem to remember your attitude was 'not my line' and 'dull'."

"Precisely. So it might surprise you to learn I have a girlfriend."

"No way! That's great! I thought you were looking happier than normal. Who is she?" Sherlock thought he might have detected a strange expression flit across John's face. Disappointment? Jealousy? Just puzzlement? Gleefully, he dropped his second little bombshell.

"Whittard's au pair."

"Sherlock!"

"Had to be done, John. It was the best way of gaining access to the house whilst Whittard's been away. I've now got a detailed knowledge of the interior, the codes for the burglar alarm, the information to get through the locks. It will make breaking and entering so much simpler."

"But, the girl…"

"Oh, she'll get over it quickly enough. She's not seriously involved yet, just enjoying a bit of flattery and a prolonged one night stand. "

"You slept with her already?" John sounded somewhat outraged, and Sherlock was rather taken aback.

"How else was I meant to get the time for a good look at the place? Look, I'm pleased to say there's a hotel manager who'll cut me out the instant my back is turned. Aggie's having fun, she'll be fine. Obviously she doesn't share your puritanical sensibilities."

"Hardly that, Sherlock, but I do feel sorry for her when she finds out her new boyfriend was just using her as a catspaw. Anyway, it's done now. When are you planning the break in?"

"Whittard's away with his family for ten days skiing. He gets back on the eighteenth, and I'm pretty sure Mycroft's delivery will be happening soon afterwards. So we go in on the night of the eighteenth. We'll need to watch him first, mind you, make sure he doesn't do something early. I've already had a look at the passenger manifesto, and their plane gets in at 18.55. We'll be in the arrivals lounge; we can follow them from there."

"Isn't Mycroft away in Canada from the fifteenth?"

"Yes, and he's fussing about it already. Don't you start. We'll manage without Big Brother hovering over us. That is, if you're still keen to help a licentious seducer of fair definitely-not-maidens?"

"I just think you can be thoughtless sometimes. I'll still help. I suppose my sulking won't help the not-quite-maiden in distress."

Sherlock rewarded him with a dazzling smile. "Not at all. I do appreciate the help, though."

"Hm. You do seem pretty buoyed up. I thought you didn't do sex, but it seems to suit you."

"There's times I don't do food either, but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy a good meal when it's provided."

"Shameless."

"Jealous."

"So, did you think to use protection?"

"Shut up!"

"Glad to see you're embarrassable. Nothing more mortifying than the concerned-parent-type routine when called for. So, did you?"

"Doesn't work once you've explained your motives."

_Two days earlier_

Sherlock and John sat together in the arrivals lounge. Sherlock had adopted a long dark ponytail and an unattractive black beard on this occasion, choosing worn jeans, a leather jacket, and a Harley Davidson t-shirt to complete the image. John was decked out similarly.

Sherlock was evidently wound up tight with excitement; John recognised the pent up energy in every economical movement. He was pretty wound up himself; it had been a long nine days, waiting for Whittard to return.

Sherlock had kept them occupied by solving another case, a straightforward but lucrative robbery, and by using his homeless network to trace a few more links back to Kenneth Nevill, the tobacco magnate whose dirty fingers in Mycroft's pies had caused such offence. Sherlock seldom left anything to chance, despite his reputation for carelessness.

Somewhat to his relief, he had not had to endure another date with Aggie – she had texted him, cancelling their latest rendezvous and rearranging for a weeks' time, stating she had urgent family business to sort out. He rather suspected the jealously of one of her other lover's had been piqued, and that she was milking it for what it was worth whilst reappraising her options. A sensible girl.

Now John saw him stiffen, quivering with anticipation, like a fox-hound in pursuit of some unfortunate beast. The unfortunate beast in question had hoven into view, pushing a luggage trolley, and determinedly avoiding the woman at his side, whilst carrying his smallest child and making them giggle. John felt a pang of pity for the children, and even Sherlock almost imperceptibly winced as the little arms wrapped around the neck of their criminal father.

They followed unobtrusively. Sherlock was good at this, managing to adapt their pace to be utterly inconspicuous, an old rucksack making them appear just another couple of passengers after a journey. He contrived it so that they arrived simultaneously at the taxi rank, despite not having known in advance that his quarry would be taking one. Whittard climbed into one cab, the wife and children into another. Even John didn't see Sherlock dump the GPS-enabled phone into the boot of Whittard's as they casually passed.

Sherlock climbed into the next cab, and asked to be dropped at Copthorne, ten minutes away. John tracked the progress of Whittard's cab as they did so.

"Takes me back, this. People leaving their phones in cabs to catch criminals."

Sherlock grinned.

They were dropped off in a hotel car park in Copthorne, and Sherlock, all gangling dynamism, raced off, leaving John to pay their fare. As John ran after him, Sherlock was already climbing into the driver's seat of an empty black cab that had been sitting in the car park. An ID badge with a bearded Sherlock's photograph on it identified the driver as Scott Sigerson.

"I find it relaxing to tool around London a bit sometimes", explained the detective at John's surprised expression. "Jefferson Hope was right, you'd be amazed at what people say in front of a cabbie. Comes in very useful sometimes, and the invisibility, of course.

"Fasten your seatbelt now. I don't want to lose my license. Come on, where are we going?"

John read out directions, and the distance between Whittard's cab and their own began to close.

"He's not headed for home yet, anyway."

"Good. Suggests it will be somewhere more interesting."

After thirty minutes, they were cruising just out of sight behind their target, which was travelling through an upmarket residential area.

"He's slowing down."

"He's visiting Nevill! Yes! I knew it! I hope this is no more than a planning session, or we'll be too late."

Sherlock stopped the cab near Whittard's close enough to see the man walk out.

"John, take the cab a short distance away. No offense, but your talents don't exactly include covert shadowing. I'm going to see what he's up to."

The detective was out of the car and unobstrusively slipping after the superintendent before John had time to protest. The suburban environment offered plenty of opportunities of concealment to an expert.

Whittard was obviously unaware of his shadow as he rang the intercom at the gates leading to the sizable house of Kenneth Nevill. Sherlock was over the wall in a twinkling, his sharp eyes taking in the blind spot as the CCTV cameras rotated. A row of conifers offered perfect cover as he approached the door, and from behind them, he triumphantly obtained photographic evidence that the Chief Superintendent was indeed visiting this multi-millionaire of shady repute.

Sherlock observed which way they turned, then slipped to the wall of the house and made his way along it. At each window, he used a device of his own design that he dubbed "the 21st century periscope"; a small digital video camera mounted upon a stem, feeding to a screen he held in his hand. Ah. They were in the sitting room. Shame he couldn't risk trying to get audio, but he could see enough of their lip movements to deduce their plans.

In three or four days, Nevill was planning to bring a shipment in to the country. Sherlock couldn't tell what the shipment would contain, but it was evidently planned soon, and he wished Whittard to ensure the police did not interest themselves on this occasion. He must know that it would be unsafe for the Superintendent to repeatedly divert his colleagues, eventually somebody would suspect. Therefore, this must be a particularly major event. Mycroft _would_ be interested.

The conversation was drawing to a close. They were standing. Sherlock rapidly melted into the background.

Whittard walked a little way down the street before he rang for a cab. Sherlock heard him give his own address, and smiled to himself.

Later that night, two inconspicuous men in ordinary looking, darkish clothes, strolled down Whittard's street. They slid into a leafy garden, disappearing from view.

In an unremarkable shoulder-bag, Sherlock carried the equipment he would need. His spare keys to Whittard's front door. Lockpicks. Multitool. Torch. Mobile phone set to vibrate. Surgical gloves. WD40. Balaclava. John's gun. Netbook. Highly useful piece of Mycroft's gagetry. Chalk. Charcoal. Pencil eraser. Wetwipes. A handful of sharp pebbles. Every brand of datastick he had been able to find that could match the colours of Whittard's, as described by Mycroft's tame police agent.

He had managed to persuade John to keep watch in the garden. Silently, he oiled the hinges, then unlocked and opened the front door. He quietly shut it behind him, but left it on the latch. He disabled the burglar alarm.

He crept almost noiselessly up the stairs. The corridor stretched silently in front of him. One of the children's bedroom doors was open, the plastic eyes of eight soft toys sitting on the curtained bunk bed glaring at him balefully in the orange glow from the window.

The study door was locked. _Must be very nervous if he locks the door when only he's in the house._ Undeterred, he extracted his lock picks, and carefully set to work on the door. _Push, lift, hold, turn, repeat._ He enjoyed lockpicking; there was something eminently restful about it.

There was a minute click as the lock opened, then Sherlock was in the study. He closed the door behind him, and flashed his torch around. The stick was not on the desk. He tried each drawer; nothing until he came to a locked one, which was childishly simple to unlock.

Inside was a red and grey datastick. Sherlock loaded it onto his netbook. Yes, Excel spreadsheet. Records of transactions. This was it.

He searched through the forty-eight datasticks he was carrying, fortunately finding the corresponding make. He copied the files onto the new stick. He then thoroughly studied the plastic casing. With his multitool, he meticulously copied the most obvious scratches from Whittard's stick onto the new one, and filed the edges down slightly. Then he enclosed the stick and the pebble between his palms and gently rubbed them together. He wiped the plastic dust away with a wetwipe. With the charcoal and chalk, he copied the staining on the casing, rubbing repeatedly at it with the eraser. It looked almost exactly like the old one – he was confident Whittard would not notice the difference. His fingerprints all over the old stick, however, would be very useful.

He placed the doctored new stick back in the drawer as he had found it, and relocked the drawer, pausing the fix something to the lamp. He crossed to the window, and eased it open. John emerged from the bushes. Sherlock threw him down the stick, and the doctor caught it easily, then melted back into the shadows.

Sherlock relocked the desk and the study door, thrilling with satisfaction, and crept back along the corridor, glancing behind him as he reached the stairs. No movement. No noise. Only the seven stuffed toys still seemed aware of his presence.

He descended the stairs, re-activated the burglar alarm, and stepped out into the fresh air, relocking the door behind him.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

The sudden, overwhelming, fury that overcame Sherlock as he realised his abductor had tricked him was paradoxically welcome. After having dissolved hopelessly, it was empowering to feel anything that was not utterly abject and cowed. He strained against his bonds, pink-stained teeth bared in feral rage, pupils stretched and blazing as he threw himself at Shorter.

The bonds held. The pain of it jarred, then blossomed like a mushroom cloud through his body, and he felt the red heat dissipating. Shorter laughed, shortly, and all of the wonderful rage was floating away, hopeless puddle status returning.

Sherlock slumped in his chair, panting. His nose was running again. The pain was consuming him; he couldn't think past it at all.

"What's the Diogenes, Sherlock?"

"Go to Hell." It was a pitiful whisper, a pathetic excuse for defiance. Shorter sighed.

"Go upstairs and Google it", he called to Taller. "I'll carry on our little chat here."

Sherlock shivered. As the pain ebbed, gnawing guilt replaced it, and horrified fear. _What have I done? Oh, John, I'm so sorry. What have I done? _

"Come on, Sherlock, kid. Why not make things easier for everyone? If you cooperate, we won't harm you or John."

_Empty promise. John would never willingly give away where he's hidden the stick, knowing as he does what's on it. They'll torture him just as they're doing to me. Come on, Sherlock, think!_

He managed to glare sullenly at Shorter, and stayed silent. Quietly, and with no fuss, his tormentor reached into his pocket and withdrew two frightening items.

"What's the Diogenes, Sherlock?"

_A memory. Mocking Mycroft for the first items that popped up on Googling his precious social (or rather, antisocial) club._

Shorter set about quietly inflicting more pain. Sherlock's teeth were gritted and his eyes screwed shut; it appeared he had found some reserve of stoicism.

Shorter's ministrations continued.

"What's the Diogenes, Sherlock?"

_It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts… please let him believe me now._

"Oh, GOD, no more! You'll find it anyway; the Diogenes's supposed to be a nudist resort in Buckinghamshire! It's where all the playboys go, and the pretty girls and boys who work there tend to not object if the clients get a bit frisky. My client's meeting John there; they do a good line in looking the other way. John will have the datastick on him. Please, I'm telling the truth! Please stop!"

Enough truth in it to buy a little more time; there was indeed a Diogenes naturist resort, although probably peopled by well meaning middle class mild eccentrics rather than playboys.

Mycroft's Pall Mall retreat was a very different affair, and stringently refused to set up a website, or advertise their existence at all. There were references to it though, mostly from disgruntled would-be members who had failed to meet the entrance criteria, and he doubted his ruse would last long. For now though, it appeared Shorter half-believed him.

"Thank you, Sherlock. Allow me to go and check with my associate. Make yourself comfortable while you wait."

He left. The pain was still unbearable. Myriad parts of him ached and throbbed, and by now, he must have lost a fair amount of blood. He could taste it, smell it.

The gruesome sight of what had been done to his body was nauseating in itself, and with the pain, guilt and fear leaving his mind as battered as his body, he was entirely sunk in misery.

He started to weep again.

Suddenly he jerked in terror as a shadow fell over him again. Were they back already?

A figure appeared in his line of vision, and his bloodshot eyes opened wide. He tried to be angry, but he had no spirit left, and his slurred, whispered accusation sounded weak and defeated.

"You! I've been protecting you. Stupid, stupid, I actually believed in you. Proud of yourself?"

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

_I truly am sorry that this latest update has taken such an age. My real-life feet have barely touched the ground for the last 6 weeks, and when I've had a moment to go near FF, I've been far too tired for my imagination to work properly._

_Anyway, hope you enjoyed this gruesome belated Christmas/New Year gift. I hope I will be able to post much sooner next time._


	9. Chapter 9

_**This is another quite a nasty chapter – and this time T rated is marginally softer than M rated, but they're both a little hair-raising.**_

Chapter 9

"_Sherlock_! I'll bloody kill you! Get off, you utter arse!"

Shaking with silent laughter, Sherlock released John. His flair for the dramatic had left him unable to resist sneaking up on his anxious flatmate and pouncing on him, remembering, of course, to clamp his hand over John's mouth.

"Take the fricking balaclava off too, it gives me the creeps. Honestly, you have an emotional age of about ten sometimes!"

"You're no more mature than I am, just cross that I managed to jump you", whispered Sherlock, gleefully, practically bouncing on his toes in his ebullience.

"I presume you have the stick?"

"Yep. Back to Baker Street to take a butchers."

"Only if you promise to lay off the rhyming slang. The last time gave me a headache; reminded me of when Harry would only talk Ninja Turtle speak for three weeks."

Sherlock linked his arm through John's as they walked, and told him in detail about the "job".

"Pity it wasn't more dramatic really, I'd've liked to've seen you having to hide behind a curtain with your big feet sticking out or something."

Sherlock's chuckle caught, somewhere between lungs and lips. He stopped suddenly, his frame rigid.

"What's wrong? Sherlock?"

"_Curtain…._"

"Pardon?" The detective suddenly sprang into action.

"There were _eight _bears, John! Quickly!"

He was pulling John down a side street, then another, then another, not giving the perplexed doctor the opportunity to voice more than the most inarticulate protests. He glanced over his shoulder several times, and frantically tapped away at his mobile phone. John was starting to feel irritated, as well as uneasy.

"Mind telling me what's going on?"

"Bolt hole. I have several. That cab's not loitering, just being ordinary. Come on!"

Sherlock flagged down the taxi, and they clambered inside. His face was set in a frown, and his knee jiggled up and down agitatedly. John burned to question him, but was especially mindful these days of the fact that steering wheels have ears.

Sherlock gave an address in Camden, and took off immediately again as soon as they alighted. He still seemed nervous.

"This way."

John couldn't have followed the path Sherlock led him again. He was about to protest Sherlock apparently breaking into the cellar of a Wetherspoons down a back alley when he realised Sherlock was sliding another hatch underneath the first to one side.

"Down here."

John immediately recoiled slightly in instinctive claustrophobia. The hatch had (very effectively) concealed a narrow crawl space. He disliked confined spaces, but, as Sherlock's rubber soles disappeared from view, he gritted his teeth and followed.

"Well done, John. Put the hatch back in place. I don't want this place spotted yet."

The crawl space opened out into a small room, furnished with a camp bed, and a small desk and wardrobe. Tins of food and bottles of water lined one wall.

John's mouth was hanging open. "What is this place? Narnia, or the Ministry for Magic?"

Sherlock lit a fluorescent camping bulb.

"Boxed in, unused space from the extension, easier to insulate if it was boarded over. I designed a rather nifty little piece of software to scan the floor plans of council and commercial websites and identify potential discrepancies in building blueprints. I have to check out eight or nine usually before I find one that's suitable, but that's not too difficult. I then make the necessary modifications."

"What, _you_, doing DIY? God forbid!"

"I'm handy with a power tool, actually, John."

"Right, you can fix the cupboard you broke in the kitchen."

"Dull. Right, let's see what this baby contains."

Sherlock sat on the camp bed, and fired up the laptop, his sharp features illuminated and ghostly in the blue glow.

John stared at him for a moment, but the man was transfixed. He coughed. No response.

"Sherlock?"

No response.

"_Sherlock!_"

"Yees?" Sarcastically patient, and patently distracted.

"Why are we here? Why the sudden duck and cover routine?"

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that! One minute, you're high as a kite and all ready to head back to Baker Street, the next, you're scarpering, babbling about bears, and nervous as the proverbial long tailed cat!"

"Long tailed cat?"

"Stop being deliberately frustrating. What happened?"

"I made a mistake."

"What? What sort of a mistake? When?"

"There was someone else in the house besides Whittard, and I think they were awake."

"_What?"_

"Don't shout, John. There's no point getting agitated. I admit, I was a little concerned at the time, but that's firmly in the past." Sherlock spoke as if the events under discussion were several years ago rather than earlier that evening, an intimation John could not bear to leave unchallenged.

"This is _now_ Sherlock. We are sitting in a bloody home made bunker with explosive, stolen property in our possession, and now you say we've been spotted stealing it. Who spotted you? And how do you know?"

"There was a curtained bunk bed in the kid's room. The curtain was drawn across, and there were eight stuffed toys sitting in a row across the top of it, staring at me. When I passed the door again on the way out, there were seven."

"Could have just fallen off."

"No, it was in the wrong position to fall spontaneously. Somebody knocked it off, then picked it back up. I'd imagine they were hidden behind the curtain."

"Why?"

"I have six theories at present, but the most likely is that it was Aggie. She may well have learned my true identity, or at least suspected it. As to why she was hiding from me, she may just have got suspicious and want to know what's going on, it's possible she may try to blackmail me, but she may have been working for Whittard. Seems unlikely, though, as she didn't wake him when I was in the study."

"But he may know his datastick's gone?"

"I'm hoping the replica is good enough. But we have to face the possibility he may have been tipped off. Therefore, we have a doubly good reason for finding out what's on this thing – Mycroft has at least two informants in the police, and we may need to warn them that there's a possibility their cover's blown."

"Is there any way of finding out?"

"There's one of Mycroft's best little hidden cameras trained on the desk. Clever things, it's the size of a credit card chip and transparent. I fixed it to his desk lamp. We can see streaming video; he hasn't gone in there yet, the light hasn't gone on, I've been checking on my phone. Look."

He held up the expensive device. At first, John thought he was looking a blank screen, then he noticed the vague outline of a desk illuminated in the dim glow of a street lamp.

"That's brilliant. I'm sure she'd mention to him if she's seen you breaking in and she was working for him."

"Yes. The fact that she hasn't suggests she is working off her own agenda, but it may simply be she's worried about confessing she broke his house rules and brought a man back to the house."

"Right then. We'll worry about that later. Ready, steady, read."

They put the netbook on the bed between them, and John got the task of scrolling through the document. Fortunately, he read almost as quickly as Sherlock did, so did not have to put up with many explosions of frustration. Actually, it was the doctor who ended up making more angry, unintentional exclamations than the detective.

The content was disturbing. Whittard was certainly smoothing the way for Nevill's illegal activities. These activities were extensive – they included smuggling of all kinds – arms, drugs and people, as Sherlock had suspected. First, John would feel angry at the suppression of proper intelligence into several major arms deals, realising he might even have been shot himself by guns supplied by this morally bankrupt arsehole. Then, his fury would be roused instead by the description of the "cargo" of human traffic – not only had Whittard helped enable desperate, often underage, peoples' entry into the country, but had used a contact high up in the Special Branch to misdirect attention away from the sinister final destinations the kids ended up in.

The list seemed to go on and on, and even Sherlock's icy composure was slipping slightly, exposing a tiny chink of the compassionate core he was usually at pains to suppress. It would appear that Nevill was not Whittard's only "client". He was also helping to conceal the multi-million pound activities of a cabinet member and officials from the fraud squad and the Serious Fraud Office, and protect a major corporation from exposure of its hazardous disregard of environmental legislation. Numerous underworld players drifted into this game, and Sherlock knew a dominoes effect was inevitable when they were arrested. He anticipated links to at least three of London's biggest drug barons as well – an additional bonus.

He identified the contact who must be the leak on Mycroft's staff, but would need his brother to review the details to identify the perpetrator – he had used a false name, but there was enough there to betray him nevertheless.

Then, half way through a particularly harrowing description of the concealed fate of four petty drug dealers, Sherlock let out a loud expletive.

"What is it?" gasped John, having almost jumped out of his skin at Sherlock's breaking his protracted silence.

"Mycroft's roped in Sally Donovan."

"_Sally?_"

"Oh, stupid, stupid; he _said_ he had enlisted a junior police officer he fully trusted. He's used _me_ as his truffle pig to find him a trustworthy stooge, and hasn't even had the common decency to warn me."

"Hang on, Sherlock – Sally - as in Lestrade's Sally Donovan? You can't stand her, how on earth could Mycroft have got his recommendation from you?"

"She's a sarky, sourfaced pain in the backside, but she's as incorruptible as you are, despite the aberration with Anderson. I can't have spoken much about her to Mycroft, but a few words are enough, and he trusts my opinion on these matters. The smug sod; she'll never let me forget this, if she bloody lives long enough. DAMN! You realise how much this complicates matters, of course?"

"Er…"

"Oh, come _on_! With Mycroft away, I could just have handed this in to Saunders and Jakes at Special Branch, but they'd just have to arrest everyone named here, Sally included. They'd also have to include in their conscientiously filled in, _bloody_ report, that Sherlock Holmes gave it to them, because, if I just dropped it to them anonymously, with no explanation, it would take far too much sniffing around to establish its credentials, therefore putting every damn bird to flight, and if I _do_ explain it to them, they won't _bloody_ lie about it, and who else on that list of suspects is a well known contact of Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes?"

He had to pause to draw breath at this point, and leant his elbows on his knees, frantically raking his fingers through his hair.

"We'll have to wait 'til Mycroft gets back. He has the requisite authority to do all this under the radar and keep _bloody_ Sally Donovan out of it."

"_Can_ we wait?" asked John, anxiously. "If we think Whittard's come home for something big?"

"We'll have to see," said Sherlock, grimly. "I expect we'll find out what all the fluttering's about if we keep reading."

Sure enough, towards the end of the document, the plan was outlined. In four days time, three highly sophisticated explosive devices were to be secreted into the country, via Plymouth docks. The Special Branch had apparently picked up on some of the web chatter surrounding this delivery, and Whittard was occupied in a complex misdirection – there would be a dummy shipment arriving into Portsmouth, and resources would be concentrated there.

"This cannot be good," muttered John. "Why would they want to bring this stuff into the country?"

"Unfortunately, that is obvious from the pattern, John. To his credit, I don't think Whittard has realised the full implications himself, but look at the parties involved here. I've also studied the reports Mycroft's received of his suspicions. Look at the pattern. The main players all stand to benefit from an increase in the defence budget, and stand ideally placed to misappropriate a large proportion of it without detection. What action, do you think, John, might result in a knee-jerk increase in the defence budget, even in a time of economic cut-backs?"

John stared at him, wide eyed. "Those explosives – they're not planning a so-called terrorist attack, are they?"

"I am very much afraid they are, John. Moreover, when the bona fide members of the investigating team come in after whatever disaster they chose to perpetrate, they will find the 'terrorists' have access to highly sophisticated modern technology. I wouldn't be at all surprised if it was technology with a distinct association with an unfriendly country. War mongering's awfully big business."

"Tell me you're just speculating."

"To some extent, yes, but it is one of the most likely contingencies, looking at the data available. By a long way."

John swore, under his breath. Then he looked at Sherlock. "We have to warn Sally, then you can hide her. This is too big, Sherlock, too important – we can't just wait for Mycroft. Hundreds of people might die."

"No, John, I very much doubt that, actually. These people are only successful if they keep their heads down. They're not all powerful and running the government. They're a group of rotten apples who won't want the rest of the barrel to notice they stink. There's always far more scrutiny if many people die. I would imagine they'll keep casualties as low as possible to avoid that, but go for a high-impact near- miss. That's not to say there wouldn't be some adverse outcomes, but we do have time. Four days at least. I'll let Mycroft know he needs to return early, though. His little jaunt should be nearly done by now, they'll manage without him."

"What if this does start a war?"

Sherlock snorted. "It doesn't work quite like that, trust me; with Mycroft as a brother, I should know. I said 'war-mongering', not direct war. As in lots of posturing, chest-beating, frantic negotiations, and very likely money changing hands. Lots of ways for the rotten apples to benefit, but, don't worry, even I'm not enough of a monster to allow the nuclear holocaust in order to do things my own way."

John had to accept the logic of Sherlock's words, but he still looked uncomfortable. Of course, he had seen first hand the results of the arms trade; he had suffered for it himself, and seen many people die. For now though, he was trusting Sherlock.

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Sally Donovan stood in front of Sherlock's chair. _Strange_, mused a mental thread that was wandering along under its own devices, _the phrase 'white as a sheet' comes to mind, despite her skin tones_. _She must be really angry_.

He started to tremble again, the small, weary rush of anger and betrayal fading into fear and self-pity, fresh tears sliding down his nose to mingle with all the rest. _"What are you going to do?"_ he whispered, dignity forgotten.

She appeared frozen, and in his damaged condition, he struggled to interpret that. In reality, probably less than two seconds passed between his first sentence and his second, but, whilst waiting for more horrifying reprisals from a person he had often disliked, but trusted implicitly, time seemed to stretch and warp.

Abruptly, she was animated again, dropping to her haunches in front of him, brushing the hair away from his forehead, and babbling non-stop in a frantic whisper.

"Oh my god oh my god, Sherlock! What's happened? What have they done? Oh god, you've been… _tortured_!"

Sherlock stared at her, lower lip trembling, recalling his blunder as he had woken up to a comforting voice earlier. No sarcastic remark even occurred to him at the banality of her observations. His mind was racing sickeningly.

"I have to get you out of here, Sherlock. Hang on, I've got a knife here… oh no, _don't_ – I'm not going to - I didn't mean… you'll be OK, mate, I'm going to help you, not hurt you, just let me get through this tape…"

Her voiced sounded thick, and her eyes were brimming with tears, her hands trembling uncontrollably as she drew out a Swiss Army knife, and set to work on the duct tape at Sherlock's wrists. Sherlock's limping mind valiantly attempted to process the data he had been presented with, to get it in some kind of order. Sally _appeared _genuine. But how had she got here? And with his poor brain so weakened by his body's ordeal, he was finding it difficult to categorise her as friend or foe. How would he normally handle this? More data, get more data.

"How did you find me?"

"You're chipped, remember. Mycroft asked me to keep an eye on your location. This is about where the signal disappeared, so I knew I was looking for somewhere underground. I'm sorry, I should have got here sooner, but I didn't know what he was waiting for, and this place is in the middle of nowhere – there's not another house for two miles."

_A memory: Mycroft insisting on having him fitted with the latest locating device just prior to another of his little problems. Agreeing reluctantly, as Mycroft would have refused to involve him if he had demurred. _

_ "Only on the condition you don't use it to follow me at any other time." _

_ "You have a dangerous life, Sherlock. Don't you think it would be helpful if you had guaranteed powerful back-up if anything went wrong?"_

_ "Not worth the candle, brother."_

_ "This is a very clever device. You can disable it via your phone, so nobody can trace you if you don't choose. It would only reactivate after 24 hours, if you had not inputted the correct daily override – also via your phone. And removing it _is_ worse than inserting it."_

_ "Oh, very well. I suppose it's stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognise when danger might be close by. But do try to remember, _brother,_ I'm not a Labrador. So where does this ingenious piece of technology go?"_

_ Mycroft grinned. "It _is _ingenious. The dog's bollocks, one might say."_

_ "What?"_

_ "It needs to go somewhere not on display, where the skin is loose enough to conceal it. It's the dog's bollocks, as I said."_

_ "Are you suggesting…?"_

_ "Just that you're my Labrador for the duration of this case. After that, I promise I will not use it without your consent. It will only activate at the end of a 24 hour silence._

He looked back at Sally. "The twenty four hours isn't up yet."

"What twenty four hours?"

"Show me the tracer."

She looked confused, but fished her i-phone out of her pocket, and the last page she had been looking at was indeed Mycroft's location program. _The devious bastard, he should have known he wouldn't keep his promise_…. suddenly, it registered that _rescue had arrived_ – a flood of overwhelming thankfulness, relief and joy washed over him, so intense he could hardly breath – but next, he also remembered what he had done, and he choked with horror that he had forgotten it, even for an instant.

"Sally! Does John know where you are? Have you spoken to him?"

"No, I…"

"No, no, stop! You have to contact him Sally, he's in danger. Please, they're after him too, I told… I told them where to find him. The Diogenes club! He has to hide!" More tears. He was so sick of crying, but the control he usually exercised over his body was stuttering at best right now.

Sally gasped, and fumbled with her phone. "_Damn it!_ There's no signal. I'll try 999…"

"No! We don't know how far Whittard's reach is. You need to go and call him! Please, hurry!"

"But Sherlock, they could come back at any minute – they're only upstairs."

"You _have _to warn him! This is bigger than me – _please_!"

Sally got to her feet, looking dazed, and tears spilling down her cheeks now. Part of Sherlock longed for her to overrule him, and get him out of here – he could read her fear for him in her face, and it catalysed his own, fresh wave of gut-wrenching terror.

"_GO!_" he hissed, before he could give in to it.

She obeyed. He felt the terror and despondency grip him harder, and he almost cried for her not to leave. He overcame that impulse, but his next words slipped out under their own volition:

"_When you've spoken to John… please come back."_

The shivering was worse as he waited, and he found his body would suddenly launch into a panic attack without warning. _Please come back, Sally, please come back, please come back_.

He strained his ears. She must have been gone about five minutes now. There! Was that the door opening? Yes, quiet, light footsteps. She appeared in front of him again, already opening her penknife.

"He's OK, Sherlock. He knows to stay out of sight."

"Oh, thank god! Th-thank…"

"You next. Quick, we need to get this tape off." She set back to work, hacking furiously at his bonds, impeded by the tacky residue clinging to her knife. Suddenly, Sherlock froze, listening intently. There were heavy footsteps on the stairs, and now Sally could hear them too. _NO!_ Even as his mind screamed in unbearable anguish, he rolled his wrist around to conceal Sally's handiwork in almost severing the tape, and she leapt to her feet and darted behind him. He heard a door open and close softly, slightly to his left. _There must be a cupboard there, _supplied that detached micro-fragment left of his rational mind.

The footsteps were angry, and the room door burst open a split second after Sally must have concealed herself in the cupboard. Sherlock vomited bile again in dread at their approach.

Shorter and Taller now swept into the room.

"You…!" Shorter snarled abuse at him, dealing him a backhand across the face that jarred his head and drew a long moan from him. They weren't fooled by the Diogenes Naturalist Resort. "How long did you think it would take us to make a few phone calls? I've had about enough of your snivelling lying little face. Luckily for you, a friend was able to tell us about that nice little place in Pall Mall. We're on our way to pick up your little friend now, and we will-" he swore fiercely – "make sure one of you tells us where the disc is. And let us show you what happens next if we can't find him.

There was no shred of humanity now. No pity. No sympathy.

They both removed their belts. For a moment, a hysterical fear assailed him that they might intend a sexual assault, but then, they both began lashing out with the heavy metal clasps, until he couldn't contain that broken-throated screaming again. He had been beaten with a belt as a child, many times, and it had been terrible then; now all the full force of childish terror merged with the current appalling situation, plunging him into his own personal hell.

The one ray of hope in this whole nightmare was that they had stopped questioning him. This was just punishment. It was all-encompassing enough that he could keep his quaking awareness away from the fact that concealed in this very room was someone who may very well know where John really was.

They stopped, chests heaving.

"Right, Sherlock. We're going to go and see how the boys are getting on finding John Watson. Just so you remember, you'd better hope they find him. Taller drew something from his pocket.

_A hammer! Nonononnonno, he's got a hammer!_ It spoke volumes as to the impaired functioning of his usual abilities that he hadn't noticed this before. It was large and heavy. They used it. The protracted scream that followed was unearthly.

"Back soon, sugar-lips. Don't go anywhere."

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_Will Sherlock manage to keep quiet about Sally? Will try to update soon soon soon! Please read and review! It honestly does make me write a little faster._


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_One Day Earlier_

John waited as patiently as he was able for Sherlock to open the online program that would allow him a secure line to his brother. He noticed than even when Sherlock got through, he was secretive - he must have deduced there was a security issue from what he subsequently discovered in the spreadsheet.

"Mycroft, Mum's ill. She's refusing to see her GP, but it sounds like pneumonia. Can you come home and speak to her? She really needs to see a doctor."

John listened to him make arrangements for Mycroft to return, and smiled to himself at the unsurprising revelation that the brothers, despite barely choosing to speak to each other most of the time, had a ready-made code for when they needed to communicate. He hung up and turned to his friend.

"He'll be back in 15-20 hours. We'll be in time."

"Good. You suspect someone might be listening on his secure line?"

"Can't be too careful with these shadowy government official types; they're so stereotypical, all spying on each other. I pity the idiot who spies on Mycroft, there'd be nothing to see except fussing and eating and fussing about eating."

Sherlock was being cagey; the doctor had known him long enough to recognise when the detective was holding some of his cards close to his chest and also knew better than to protest it. Now he rose to his full, lanky height, and began pacing.

"I need you to keep an eye on the house, John. If Aggie comes out, follow her. She may not be working for Whittard, but if she has other contacts, we should ensure we know about it. If you see her heading to Scotland Yard, let me know. I also need you to keep an eye on the study camera - see how Whittard reacts when he picks up the stick. Lastly, and most importantly, you have to find a really safe hiding place for the stick. If anyone realises it's gone and that I had anything to do with it, they'll come after me, and it's best if I don't know where it is. Don't leave it here; this bolt hole's no good in the daytime, too many people around, and I need you to get it back to Mycroft as soon as he's back. Leave a note here though, saying where it is, just in case you get hit by a bus and miss meeting him. He'll meet you at the Diogenes any time from quarter to eight in the evening onwards. Wait in the Strangers' room. Take a book."

As he was speaking, he was shrugging himself into his long coat.

"Wait a minute! What will you be doing?" asked John, confused and a little concerned.

"Plumbing!" replied Sherlock with a wide, satyr-like grin, and with this cryptic utterance, he nimbly leapt into the crawl space and vanished.

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Sally Donovan crept out of the cupboard and over to Sherlock. Her knees were trembling so uncontrollably she could barely walk, and she found she was almost too frightened to look the usually suave, arrogant detective in the face and see the anguish in it. She could hear him crying, see the effort he was making to keep still and prevent any sobs from racking his body and jarring his wounds.

It seemed so _wrong_ - Sherlock should be cold, calm, collected and annoying. Witnessing him break down almost jarred her intrinsic sense of reality, as if gravity was thrusting mass away from itself, or the wind had ceased to blow and started to suck.

That scream he'd given. It had hardly been _human_. She had hunched in terror in her cupboard, almost rocking with the horror of it, and hating herself as she prayed, desperately, that he didn't give her away.

Mentally giving herself a shake, she dropped to her knees in front of him, and started hacking at the bindings with all her strength. It obviously hurt him; he was horribly bruised and swollen where the tape had cut into him, but she pushed this thought away from her, along with all the other Bad Stuff in her head. There was no time to be gentle physically, but she kept up a soothing whispered litany as she worked, telling him he'd be all right, that she'd get him somewhere safe, that she had the car, that he'd heal. She kept coming back to _sorry, I'm so sorry_, although she couldn't possibly have done anything to prevent this happening, and although she tried to steer clear of commiserations whilst they were still in such a precarious position, she couldn't help herself.

Sherlock looked terrible. His face was as terrifying as she had expected; clammy, puffy, red swollen eyes staring frantically, all his features horribly distorted with fear and pain. His flesh trembled so violently, it was almost as if his edges had blurred.

Sherlock could hardly take in now what Sally was trying to do. The last round had left him feeling almost disembodied, occupying a distorted reality where the only constant was pain. He fought against himself to recall his wandering mind; a large part of him did not want to take up occupancy back in his beleaguered body again. Then, suddenly, a tiny victory, and he was able to look at Sally, to observe, to understand that she was hacking frenziedly through his bonds. She was clearly petrified, and for a moment, he felt sorry for her. This was not what she signed up for. His mind cleared a little more.

"Sally," he croaked, painfully; "Please don't hold back from hurting me, even if I'm screaming or begging you to stop; we don't have much time, it can't get much worse." He ignored the annoyingly persistent tears that continued to slide down his nose. She met his eyes - _she doesn't want to look at me, it's all too uncomfortable, but she's making herself do it_ - and nodded, setting her jaw with determination.

The next few minutes were hellish as she yanked and wrenched to free him, sticky residue from the tape blunting the knife, but finally his head, both arms and one leg were free. Sherlock's stomach felt leaden as he was forced to acknowledge what would have to come next. Sally had frozen. She was staring at his leg. The one Taller had hit with a hammer before leaving the room. She looked green and faint. The leg was badly broken.

Tears started to slide down Sally's face, but she merely folded a discarded piece of tape several times over and gave it to him to bite upon, then began cutting.

The next few moments were beyond unbearable.

Then his leg was free.

Sally looked at him, deeply worried, as he tried to stand, one-legged, and dissolved almost instantly.

"I'm going to have to carry you. I think I can. I'm so sorry, it's going to be so painful,"

"You can't", whispered Sherlock. "I'm too heavy. I'm too heavy. It's too late for me. Too late. I can't... please... you'll have to kil..."

"Ssssh!" She was kind but firm. Quickly, she crossed to the cupboard where she had been hiding, and grabbed the hanging rail from it. She used it with discarded duct tape to make a makeshift splint for Sherlock's leg.

She then crouched on one knee on the floor on front of him, and drew him in a fireman's lift over her back.

It was unbearable, excruciating. Every wound stretched. He couldn't breath. He buried his face in the back of her coat.

She took some stuttering steps forward. She was actually quite strong, and managing him easily enough on the flat. She carried him out of the room, and braced herself at the bottom of the flight of stairs leading to safety. She began to climb.

From his ignominious position, Sherlock could see her knees threatening to buckle with each stair, but each time she forced through it. Nineteen steps. Seventeen to go. Fifteen. Twelve. Eight. Six. Five. Fou...five. Four. Three. Three. Two.

She dropped him on the last step, but managed to make the collapse a slow, silent one. She then gathered him up again and tottered towards the door. She was moving faster again now, with more assurance. There was a garage with a car and a people carrier - the same he had been bundled into initially - parked outside. Sally, gasping, laid Sherlock down behind it, concealed by a wheelie bin.

"I'm going to run and bring the car nearer, Sherlock. I'll be five or six minutes."

Sherlock lay slumped where he had been put, whimpering softly, black exhaustion blurring the edges of his vision. He closed his eyes.

He must have slept briefly, because it appeared Sally was back almost instantaneously, frantically tugging at him to get him back up.

She had parked the car just out of sight behind a row of Leyland conifers, and now she staggered with him the hundred metres or so to where she had left it.

Panting, she set him on his feet beside the rear door.

"Just - hold - tight - a sec, Sherlock, - and I'll get y..."

He felt her freeze next to him, and a little croak emerged from her throat.

_Nonono it can't be it's not fair..._

He opened his eyes, wincing at the bright light, then felt himself beginning to slide down the side of the car.

Taller and Shorter, masks in place, armed with evil looking knives, Taller with the hammer still in his belt, were walking towards them, and there was no way Sally could get to the car door in time.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

_Once again, so sorry for the long gaps - and for ending on an evil cliffy! There's no way I can get this stuff out much faster at the moment, I'm afraid, but I'll do my best for the next chapter._

_Still love your reviews - so please do review!_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Sherlock strode briskly down the street, feeling that unique rush of endorphins only the combination of intellectual and physical exertion could bring. _This _was why he kept refusing Mycroft's offers of a desk job - no matter how exacting the problems may be, it would be like visiting an aquarium compared to deep-sea diving - he did not want any such barriers separating him from the interesting species he pursued.

He was headed for Scotland Yard. He had one or two little loose ends to tie up - fixing the leaks in his brother's system. Plumbing.

He strode up to Lestrade's office, and demanded the use of his computer, ousting the feebly protesting inspector from his desk.

"You need a lunch break. You haven't been eating properly. Go to the canteen, they're serving pizza today, and you find it almost acceptable."

Lestrade flung his arms up in defeat; a useless gesture, as Sherlock was already engrossed in his computer screen. Sally Donovan looked over towards them both, and Sherlock ignored her as usual. No reason to draw any further attention to her, but he would enjoy getting his own back on his brother at a later date. Lestrade, sighing, asked her if she fancied a trip to the canteen, and the two disappeared.

As soon as they were out of the door, Sherlock used Lestrade's profile to get into the shared files and folders and spent sixteen minutes examining the duty rosters.

He then took the ID badge he had just that moment abstracted from Lestrade, and walked down to the personnel department. He used the ID badge to gain access.

He flashed the badge and his very best flirtatious smile at a clerk standing at a filing cabinet, and asked her if she had received his latest self declaration form yet. She trotted obediently back to the nearest computer, which he had already ensured was logged off, with barely a glance at the bad photograph on the card. He memorised her login and password as he watched her type it in, thanked her sincerely for confirming that his self-declaration form was indeed up to date, and made his way to the library - he doubted his next actions would be observed, but he didn't want anyone to connect them to Lestrade on the off-chance that they were.

He then logged in as the personnel clerk, and bought up six employee records. He copied these onto a new data-stick, and also took photographs of the screen shots with his mobile, and texted them to John. Next, he opened a website that at first glance appeared to be selling novelty photographs, and updated the photographs onto that as well. Finally he took a small risk and logged on as Whittard - he smiled and shook his head as the password for the stolen data stick that he had broken in three minutes with a de-encryption program matched that for the Superintendent's standard Yard login. People were so predictable.

Pleasingly, Whittard's computer activity betrayed no signs of a man in crisis. He had drafted and sent out one or two very dull memos, and replied to a backlog of equally dull email correspondence that had accumulated over his holiday. Reassured, he logged off the computer and left Scotland Yard.

He decided to head back to Baker Street. He had knotted off most of his loose ends, but one or two fluttered annoyingly in his subconsciousness. Sherlock always took it as a personal insult if any part of his brain refused to cooperate, and would probably rather not have had a subconscious at all, but he grudgingly acknowledged that only a fool would completely disregard its promptings. He would need his lap top, to access his own, cleverly protected, online database - The Index, as he liked to term it.

As he walked, he would unpredictably change in course and weave his way dow the street, his hard-drive constantly humming away on a sat-nav type subroutine that enabled him to be aware of possible escape routes at all times. He glanced automatically at shop windows, wing mirrors, any reflective surface that might tell him he was being followed.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

He noticed the attractive, ordinary looking 30-something woman who was trying to reverse park, badly, nearby. As he was in a good mood, he almost did the chivalrous thing and went to assist her (he could, on occasion, be impeccably polite, but it had to be on his own terms), but her partner got out of the car to help first. He carried on walking, the details of his surroundings all taken in, processed and analysed.

_There was something odd about the number plate of that people-carrier_... _it wasn't lying flat, almost as if bubbles were trapped under a thin layer of plastic_...OH!

He realised his danger a split second too late, just as the man who had been guiding his partner into the tight parking spot leapt upon him, pinning Sherlock's arms behind him with his coat, as three more men erupted from the vehicle, stuffing a sack over his head as they bundled him into the people carrier and pinioning him to the floor as they slammed the door and drove away.

It was so quick, over in a few seconds, that Sherlock doubted any passers by had even noticed. He had struggled frantically, but then the rather pleasant smell of Halothane began seeping through the fibres of the bag. Even as he held his breath, he knew it was hopeless. The last thing he remembered before waking up was them removing the bag and placing him in the recovery position. There was a bag valve mask next to him. They evidently needed him alive.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

Sally thought for a moment that she might die of terror as the two men approached, wicked blades at the ready, so painfully did her heart pound in her chest.

She was just tensing herself, ready for the fight she knew to be useless - she stood no chance against these brutes, and Sherlock literally couldn't even stand...

A deafening _CRACK!_

Gunshot.

Frantically, she looked down at herself, half expecting to see blood blossoming over her front - but there was nothing - then she heard the scream.

It was loud, and primal, and... enraged.

Almost in slow motion, she saw the shorter of Sherlock's two torturers crumple to the ground, clutching at his knee - from where blood quite definitely was blossoming - and start howling.

Her confusion may have lasted as much as half a second longer, then she heard the loud, commanding voice ring out behind her.

"_Drop the knife, and get your hands on your head, unless you want a taste too!"_

The Taller man hastened to obey.

Sally stared around frantically, but she couldn't see the speaker. She caught Sherlock and held him upright. He was whispering something under his breath, but she couldn't hear him over the pounding in her ears.

"_Back away from your friend and the car... good... Now strip!_"

She watched, holding the quivering Sherlock against her, as the terrified torturer obeyed. Sherlock managed to lift his head to see the mask come off, and she heard an intake of breath. She didn't recognise the man herself. He was white and clammy looking, as if he was about to faint. _Good_, she thought, viciously.

"_Now, get over to your friend, and drag him over to the other car. Good. Now, put him in the boot - and climb in after him. Drop the lid, hard. I want to know it's closed._"

There was a loud thud, and then silence, apart from the muffled cries from the injured man trapped in the boot.

Sherlock started to slump further, and suddenly Sally couldn't hold him up any more.

Then there was a scuffle of gravel behind them, and John Watson was running towards them, his face a ghastly colour, and his old army revolver clutched in a very steady hand.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

_Well perhaps things are looking up at last - or are they? Many a slip twixt, and Sherlock doesn't look too good either..._

_More to follow soon, I promise!_

_Please read and review..._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

John fell on his knees beside the collapsed Sherlock, and Sally, feeling strangely detached, watched the morphing of Soldier John into Doctor John, a transformation almost physically palpable.

"What happened?"

Sherlock had crumpled in on himself, and his back was the part John could see - it was surprisingly unscathed, where he had been strapped to the chair. He probably wasn't, therefore, entirely ready for the sight of Sherlock as he turned him over. He gave a strange moan, rocking back on his heels, his face draining utterly of colour.

Then Doctor John was back, his face setting into a stolid, unemotional mask.

_He's even better at that than Sherlock is_, thought Sally, fleetingly. Then she remembered that she was a police officer, and that the doctor had just asked a question.

"Those two guys you've just locked in the boot did this to him. They've had him for hours. I'm sorry, I didn't get suspicious for some time..." She stopped herself with an effort; now was not the time for self-exculpation. "They had taped him to a chair and'd already tortured him when I arrived - he already had that head injury. Then, they came back when I was trying to get him out, and I had to hide. They beat him with belts, and they broke his leg with a hammer. I heard them..." _Damn! concentrate, Sally!_

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" Doctor John's voice was so calm and gentle, and he smoothed his fingers through the newly short dyed-blond hair so tenderly that Sally wondered, not for the first time, if the two of them were sleeping together.

Suddenly, the detective's eyes shot wide open, and he gave a strangled cry of "_NO!_" He started struggling frantically, the wide gaze eerily unseeing.

"_Sherlock_!" It was rapped out as a command; suddenly Sally could see Soldier John coming through again. It worked, the silver bloodshot eyes blearily trying to focus on his friend's face. Then she watched, astonished, as Sherlock's own face began to recreate its usual impassive expression; as the detective exerted his energies to regain control.

"I'm sorry John. They tricked me last time. They pretended to be you, and I told them where to find you. I told them ... If I tell you now I might give you away again." _No, that makes no sense. Why? I can't think, it hurts. _His forehead wrinkled in confusion. _I'm so tired. So so tired. _The eyes drifted shut then snapped open wide again, staring at John's face, the pupils alternately constricting and dilating as he tried to focus. "Are you really here?"

"Yes, I'm here, we got you out, and we're getting you away from here, but it'll hurt, I'm sorry. We'll try to keep you as still as possible, but you've got some nasty injuries. We'll need to get you to hospital, I'm afraid."

"You're really here? Last time, I gave you away." The frightened look was back, but again, changed to utter relief as again, Sherlock focused on his friend.

John felt a twinge of worry, then tried to reassure himself that some memory loss was normal with a concussion. Unfortunately, being a doctor, he knew things like that the longer the period of anterograde amnesia following a head injury, the higher the likelihood of long term damage. He pushed these unhelpful thoughts to the back of his mind.

"Let's get you into the back seat, mate. If you cross your arms over your front, Sally and I will do the hard word, OK?"

Sherlock let out a little "_mmmf_", but John wasn't entirely certain he'd understood. He turned to the shivering Sally Donovan.

"Do you think you can lift his legs without moving the broken one too much?". She nodded. She still looked tearful, but she was holding it together. "And do you think you'd be OK to drive? Then I can hold him on the seat and talk to him. At least his back isn't too bad". Privately, he thought she didn't look as she was in any fit state to be driving at all, but he didn't want to leave Sherlock for the journey, even to only go as far away as the front seat. His friend seemed to derive reassurance from the relatively concrete and reliable sense of touch.

"What are you going to do about the guys in the boot?" They both glanced at the car. The doctor narrowed his eyes contemplatively, then looked at the house and garage. His eyes settled upon the ground floor window sill.

"We'll wedge the rear of the car under the window sill. They won't be able to lift the boot lid. It'll be good and secure that way until we can get Mycroft's people to pick them up - hopefully they can play down the knee thing. It would be a really bad time to get taken in for questioning."

"Can they breathe?"

"Sadly, yes. The boot isn't airtight. Let's get Sherlock settled down, then we can sort them out."

Gently, they gathered up the detective, John backing into the car whilst supporting most of his weight. Both winced at the horrible moan that seized him as he was moved. They settled him as best they could, then went to move the captive's car, smashing the front passenger window to gain access, John pushing as Sally took the handbrake off and steered. Muffled yells of fright at the movement drifted from the boot - neither of them bothered to offer any reassurance. _Let the arseholes believe this was a prelude to something far worse_.

Then, they returned, to find Sherlock incoherently muttering to himself and close to falling to the floor. John climbed in next to him, and pulled his friend's head and shoulders onto his lap, wrapping his arms firmly around him in an attempt to offer maximum comfort, careful to avoid the more obvious injuries. As he did so, Sherlock came to again, gasping, and trying to fight him off.

"No! No more! Please leave me alone!"

"Sherlock. It's John. You're with me, we got you out of there. It's over."

"John? You were here before, weren't you? No, wait, get off, I'm not telling you anything!"

He started trying to struggle again, but John placed his hand against the side of Sherlock's face, leaning in close so he could be seen, and talking softly, soothing nonsense; telling Sherlock that he'd better get well quickly as it was his turn to do the shopping, that Mrs Hudson would be on the warpath with home made scones as soon as she heard he'd been injured - desperately trying to capture a little normalcy. The flailing stilled; a great relief, as it had obviously been excruciatingly painful.

Sally started the engine, and carefully backed the car, shuddering at the hollow whimpers from behind her at every tiny jarring movement. The drive way was rutted, and, however carefully she tried to drive, it was a rough ride. The whimpers became soft sobs, and she felt her own eyes sting slightly. Then, thank god, they were on the open road, and it was much smoother going. Sherlock settled a little in John's arms. The silver eyes flickered open again.

"I'm really out of there, aren't I?"

"Yes. Out of there and safe. They're locked in the boot of the car. Mycroft can arrange to have them picked up."

"Mycroft! There was something I had to tell him...". His eyebrows contracted, eyes screwed up with the effort. "I...I can't remember. Why can't I remember?"

"It'll come back to you. No, don't tense up. I've got you."

"John. It hurts."

"I know, mate, I know. I'm sorry, we'll get you sorted soon. Sally's driving us to the hospital now."

"It really, really hurts. Oh God! I told them where to find you! I'm really sorry. I'm sorry. They said they were you!"

"I know, I know, but they're not going to find me, and you couldn't help it."

"Did I tell you that already?"

"Yes, but don't worry. You're quite concussed. You've had a nasty bang on the head."

"I did that. I wanted to knock myself out, but that's when they p...pretended to be y...you.". The tears were coming again, and John was torn between professional relief that these memories were so intact, and wishing that they weren't. He wanted so badly to sooth Sherlock, he would have wrapped him in his own skin if only it would help. Instead, helplessly, he shushed and whispered as if to a small child, feeling vaguely guilty to be speaking in this manner to the most intelligent man he knew.

"They pulled my fingernails out. Lots more. I thought I could stand it, but I couldn't."

"It's been terrible for you, Sherlock but they're locked up now. They'll be in prison for a long time. You're all right now. I've got you."

Sherlock's lids were heavy again, and he instinctively turned his face towards John's chest, murmuring his name. For a blessed moment, he seemed peaceful, then, as the car rounded a corner, he was awake and terrified again.

"JOHN! No, no, they're coming after him... It's my fault... make them stop, it hurts ... I'm sorry!" Again, John set to to calm his friend, and again, the unutterable relief surfaced, which prompted Sherlock to try to clutch at John's jumper. The rough cotton caught on his injured hands, causing a shuddering, weak wail of pain, followed by violent retching, after which he seemed to pass out again.

"Is his brain OK?" whispered Sally from the driver's seat, worriedly. "Only, he wasn't this confused when I found him."

"He does have a nasty concussion, but this isn't typical for a pure brain injury; he's also probably just giving out a bit from exhaustion and shock, plus he's had those further injuries too. He just needs patching up." John was speaking partly to reassure himself, but somehow, he didn't want to share his worries with Sally. It was illogical, but it felt disloyal to Sherlock. "How far to the hospital?"

"Fourteen miles. We really were in the middle of nowhere."

"Gloucestershire Royal, I guess?"

"Yes. Is that OK?".

"Fine. Thankfully it's big for a district general, so he'll be safe there, and they're good; I've locumed there before."

Sherlock went through a couple more cycles of his sleep-wake panic-relief _en route_. John had never been more relieved to arrive anywhere as when they pulled up outside A&E and two paramedics came running over with a stretcher in response to his shout for help. Keeping his friend from jarring himself too appallingly was much easier with four people than two.

There was only one advantage to Sherlock's ghastly bloodstained and mutilated appearance, and that was the shock it provoked in the usually unshockable A&E staff, especially when John and Sally gave them a brief explanation of the reason for it. It was fairly quiet, and they immediately wheeled him into Majors; John heard the call going out to the trauma team even before they had put the brakes on and transferred him to a trolley.

There was a minor crisis when a well-meaning young nurse tried to fasten an oxygen mask onto Sherlock's face. He gave a great gasp of terror, and started thrashing around trying to tear at it with his ravaged fingers.

"I can't breathe, I can't breathe, get it off, I'm drowning!"

John felt sick as he digested the probable reason for this reaction. He turned to the shaken looking girl to explain, feeling that he needed to start putting his reluctance to communicate about Sherlock's torments to one side.

"I expect he's been water-boarded. Simulated drowning. His sats are OK; I think we can do without oxygen for now."

She nodded numbly.

Sherlock was awake again, gasping in panic, and looking at the increasing crowd of people around him in alarm. John leaned closer, to block them from view, and spoke softly to him.

"You're with me. We're safe. You were tortured, but everything will mend. We're in Gloucestershire Royal Hospital, and we need to treat your broken leg and your head injury. We'll need IV access, and to give you something for the pain. Will you let them put a cannula in for you?"

"Will you do it?" whispered Sherlock. "I don't want anyone else."

"Of course", answered John smoothly. Fortunately, the team of doctors and nurses arriving around the bed were both pragmatic and compassionate, and nobody raised a jobsworth objection that John shouldn't really be caring for his friend. With the ease of long practice, he slipped a wide-bore cannula into Sherlock's forearm, whilst wary silver eyes watched his every move.

John then allowed the competent trauma team to continue, as Sherlock was assessed, and received fluids and antibiotics. There was some talk of intubating and ventilating him in view of his fluctuating level of consciousness, but he seemed otherwise stable, his breathing even; stable enough for a CT head scan at least, and doubtless everyone was thinking about his reaction to the oxygen mask.

He was given IV morphine, the anaesthetist hovering in the background in case it suppressed his respiratory drive. He obviously had a high tolerance for the drug, which John tried not to think about too much, but eventually the dose was sufficient to control the pain, and his breathing remained adequate.

Without the pain, the detective was flat out, but John followed the team to the CT scanner anyway. Usually only children had people accompany them into the scan room, but when John asked to be allowed in with his friend, nobody raised any demure, merely handing him a lead jacket. He watched the flickering red lights blinking around the large white donut shape as the scanner whirred, and felt his stomach contract with dread at the thought that the results might reveal a major brain injury. It was more for himself, then, than Sherlock, when the detective gave a small sigh and wrinkled his nose, that John began quietly chatting away in airy, reassuring tones.

"Did you know that if you're over a certain weight you can't have a CT on this machine - you have to go to the vet school in Langford and go through the cart horse scanner - although it's even worse if you're a bit further South - then it's the elephant MRI scanner at London Zoo - can you imagine a more powerful incentive to lose weight?" He felt a sudden lightness, as he was sure he saw, very fleetingly, the ghost of a smile on the drawn face.

He continued the lighthearted babble, keeping it mildly inane yet interesting, until the CT was complete and they were wheeling his friend back out on a trolley. The A&E registrar had been in the technician's room, watching the scan and on standby in case of deterioration. She stuck her head around the door to speak to John, holding a phone in her hand.

"Can't see any major damage. We're waiting on the formal report, but I had a word with the neurology reg, and he's having a look now as a favour." She paused to speak on the phone. "Yep, thanks Rhys. I thought so. Cheers, see you later. John, he agrees, it looks OK. Want to see the pics yourself?" John glanced at the sleeping Sherlock, feeling a dawning relief, but still feeling a need to see the images of that particularly precious brain, to convince his churning stomach that that, at least, was intact.

"We'll wait for you a minute, Doc, if you like", chipped in the porter at the end of the trolley, and the A&E sister nodded too. Feeling a swelling gratitude that everyone was being so _nice_, John slipped into the viewing room, and scrolled through the images. He wasn't an expert on CT heads, but he knew enough to recognise there were no signs of major bleeding or swelling. He pushed away the thought that this was still not entirely conclusive and allowed himself to be flooded with massive waves of thankfulness as he rejoined Sherlock. His brain was grossly OK; his mind was another matter, but his body would need fixing first. _Concentrate on the positives, and the things that can be changed, not the intangible nagging doubts._

The decision was made to take Sherlock to theatre that evening, to reset his leg, and treat and dress his other numerous injuries. Rousing him so he could give consent was horrible, as he woke up terrified and disorientated again. John had found a position to hold his hand in without touching any of his injuries, and he kept hold of it until Sherlock eventually seemed to process his surroundings and get the gist of the information being given to him; he gave a nod in response at least. The team documented his verbal consent, and John stayed with him until he was anaesthetised, then stood blinking in the corridor as the trolley was wheeled away. Now he felt disorientated. He made his way back to the A&E exit automatically.

Sally was sitting in the waiting room, clutching an empty coffee cup and looking immensely strained. Someone had given her a pair of mismatched blue scrubs to replace the bloodstained clothes she had been wearing earlier. She looked up and saw John, rising to her feet. He felt guilty he had not updated her yet.

"Brain scan was OK."

"Oh, thank God. Freak wouldn't cope if he couldn't be cleverer than all the rest of us". Her voice started to wobble, and her eyes filled with tears. John put an arm around her and led her outside. She was shaking. He was too. _Tiredness, adrenaline, grief_. She started to cry, and John wasn't so far off it himself. He wrapped her up tightly to him, glad to have someone else to look after.

A helicopter was coming in to land on the hospital helipad. John watched it automatically, not really noticing at first that it wasn't an air ambulance. No paramedics got out, just two figures, male and female, silhouetted against the street lights. The helicopter took off again immediately, the male figure running towards the A&E entrance. As he got closer, he called out;

"John?"

Mycroft Holmes stepped into the light; pale, rumpled, travel worn, taking in the state of John and Sally, and looking absolutely petrified.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

_Well, apologies again for long update time. I seem to be constantly on call at the moment, and it's more conducive to flopping reading other people's fics or watching telly when I get home than writing difficult chapters my own. Reviews always encourage me though; thanks so much to all you lovely people! Hope you stay with me._

_Hope this chapter struck the right balance. Wanted it to be just technical enough without losing everyone in jargon._

_The fact about the cart horse and elephant scanners is true, by the way!_

_Hope to update again soon now I've got this slight millstone of a chapter out the way._


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

"John?" The usually suave tones of the elder Holmes brother emerged in a tremulous, hoarse whisper. "He's not dead, is he? No, you would make contacting me your first priority if he was in serious danger, wouldn't you?"

The agonised question loomed through Mycroft's whole demeanour, and John immediately felt the calm, collected doctor within him, now so much a part of his psyche that it operated without conscious effort, begin to answer for him.

"It's OK, Mycroft, he's alive, and it's not life threatening. But... we should have this conversation sitting down."

"I saw the CCTV footage as you brought him in", croaked the usually urbane genius, his eyes suddenly moist, and obviously reliving the horror he must have felt at seeing the images. "So much blood...He's badly hurt, isn't he?"

John ached with sympathy for this suddenly less-than-sinister Big Brother; hoist by his own petard, like the eavesdropper learning the worst possible news through his activities. All the usual irritation he felt about Mycroft invading his and his flatmate's privacy was swept away by the suddenly irrefutable evidence that the man cared very deeply indeed, and was suffering. He reached out, put a gentling hand on Mycroft's arm, and spoke to him as he would speak to a spooked animal.

"I'm sorry you had to see that before you knew the full story. I know he looked awful, but that's often the case with traumatic injuries; they look worse than they are. Physically, there's nothing life threatening. Look, come on, there's a relative's room inside, let me take you in there, we'll grab a cuppa, and I can tell you what's happening."

Mycroft didn't move. He appeared rooted to the spot, a grim determination to know everything holding him in place, and at odds with the rather frightening fragility which was plain from his posture.

"He's been tortured, hasn't he? For the _fucking_ information from Whittard's hard drive?"

"Yes." John watched, as Mycroft seemed to break a little in front of him. He dropped his head into his hands, breathing heavily. Not-Anthea, who had followed closely, looked ill as she caught this part of the conversation. He didn't resist as John drew him gently inside.

"Can I fetch you a drink, Mr Holmes?" Sally appeared much calmer as her own training kicked in, and she took on the role of supporter and not supported.

"Thank you. Tea would be lovely. Tea, milk, no sugar. Thank you." The words were whispered and automatic, the internal diplomat managing Mycroft's autopilot for him. John felt an incongruous, slightly hysterical urge to smile at the way they were all displaying both their individual masks, and the private roiling beneath them.

John lead Mycroft to the relative's room, feeling the trembling beneath his hand. Not-Anthea followed wordlessly. He sat down.

"Well?" There was a little more of the habitual haughty composure in the question, but his eyes were wrinkled, mid-wince.

John took a deep breath.

"They've hurt him pretty badly, Mycroft. Two men, I don't know who they're working for. There are lots of superficial injuries, but there's also a broken leg, and a self-inflicted head injury. They've taken him to theatre to pin the leg. They'll also need to observe him from the head injury perspective when he wakes up."

"What did they do to him? I'm sure your intention to save me the unpleasant details is admirable, but I always find it propitious to have all the available data."

"Mycroft, I really don't think it's necessary go through all that now. You've had a shock; wait for later for the details."

"I would prefer to know now. Please tell me what you know. I am quite capable of finding out if you do not, but I would prefer to hear it from you." His face was infuriatingly calm, but John could see the strain hiding just behind the eyes. He'd never held out much hope that the emperor of fine details would content with broad brushstrokes; it had been a token effort. On reflection, he decided it was best to do as Mycroft said. The man had, presumably, a towering imagination to match his intellect, and it could probably conjure up even worse scenarios than the real one if left to run unchecked. Blunt was probably better too - sugar coating his words would not be appreciated.

"We're not sure exactly what time Sherlock was taken. I was with him up until just before dawn. Whoever they were, they had him for a good few hours though, and they were apparently desperate to find out about the data stick." He took a deep breath, and started to recite the horrific litany of injuries; burning, pulling of teeth and skin and nails, cutting, beating, waterboarding, the self-inflicted head injury, and the broken leg, which had sadly occurred when Sally had been halfway through rescuing him. He concluded with; "Some of the injuries will leave scarring, but hopefully it will only be in small localised areas. I think the main problem will be the mental aftermath."

He stopped, slightly out of breath, as he had felt compelled to get this all out in one go. Mycroft was deathly pale, but his eyes remained fixed on John, who had to draw on all his mental strength to continue.

"He was very upset and quite confused, lapsing in and out of consciousness a bit, when we found him. He was terrified too, and a bit weepy. He didn't want anyone other than me cannulating him, and he kept expressing guilt that he had told them anything."

How strange, to hear his own voice calmly and concisely explaining the situation, his voice soft and sympathetic but not overly emotional, when his insides were still tumultuously churning. When he got the part where he had yet again shot a man for Sherlock, and then imprisoned both torturers in the boot, it was as if an outside agent had just informed him of what had happened; he reacted to his own words and started to feel sick, shivery and close to tears.

"I wish to see him", stated the elder Holmes brother, with a little of his habitual imperiosity.

"It wouldn't be sensible right now", warned John. "He's in surgery, he'll be under the drapes - you wouldn't be able to see anything without moving them, and I wouldn't advocate that."

The British Government receded, and the slumped worried older brother returned to the fore.

"You're right. I have no expertise in medical matters."

Suddenly, John felt a need to escape from the hospital for a while. He wondered if Mycroft would agree to it.

"I think we should decamp. Sherlock will be in theatre for four or five hours, and it's likely other people will need this room. The surgeon and the theatre nurse have both promised to call me when they're finishing up, so we can get back before he's awake. We should find somewhere to stay, get some food. I can find us a hotel or inn somewhere nearby."

He watched the brief series of emotions play across the smooth face, only able to identify them because he was so well versed in reading the subtleties of another Holmes - defiance, followed by defeat, the glance around the relatives' room as if it was a territory to be defended, the moment when consideration for others entered the picture, then acceptance of John's proposition. Eventually, Mycroft nodded. "We can go to my house near here. It's only fifteen minutes away."

"You have a house in Gloucester?" asked John, mildly surprised.

"_Cheltenham_, John", he corrected, his tone implying John was being rather slow.

"Oh. GCHQ?"

"Of course," he intoned. Naturally Mycroft would have accommodation near Britain's main Intelligence headquarters.

Then another thought struck him with urgent force; his head spun with disbelied that he could have forgotten, and his voice took on a machine-gun quality as he blurted out the information.

"Sherlock thought there was a delivery of explosives due into the country, and even that there might be a terrorist attack, aiming to incriminate another country - he called it war-mongering. He also thought there were several people involved that weren't initially suspected."

Rather anticlimactically, Mycroft just nodded, as if John had just informed him someone was stealing from the stationary cupboard.

"Sherlock communicated as much to me himself, via my secure connection. He was unable to give me the full details, as the encryption is complex, and takes time to decode. He evidently has very little faith in my employees. He also sent me photographs of six Scotland Yard employees, whom I assume could potentially be implicated in Whittard's plans. I have not had sufficient privacy to study them in depth just yet, nor coordinate the clamp-down..."

He stared off into space for a moment, then said, as if he we're confessing a sordid secret; "I don't think I should look at the information now. I am... distracted. It is possible I may miss things. It is best to do these things with a clear head. For now, I shall concentrate on my brother, then turn my full attention to the plans when he has woken up. One extra day will not jeopardise anything that has not already been compromised by Sherlock's kidnap."

John nodded, thinking how remarkable was the Holmes ability to compartmentalise mental processes. "Good plan for now. Good idea to get some rest, too."

"Shall I call for a driver, Sir?" asked Not-Anthea, pulling out her Blackberry. Mycroft shook his head.

"No. I would very much prefer that no-one knows where we are, on the dubious assumption that our cover is not blown. I have my own, shall we say, _external _contractors, who can take care of Sherlock's captors until I have time to interview them. I will contact them myself on arrival to the house. Apart from that, I would rather you contacted nobody at all."

Not-Anthea looked a little offended, but she turned her phone off obediently.

John said "We should probably ask the staff to call us a taxi. The police may need the car we came in, and the back seat's a bit..." he trailed off.

Mycroft looked a bit sick.

All four of them piled into the cab to Mycroft's Cheltenham residence, passing the strange donut of GCHQ beside the dual carriageway. John had imagined the residence would either exude Cold War era austerity, or quite the opposite, like the quiet masculine opulence of the Diogenes Club. However, it turned out to be a pleasant little 1930s terrace on a quietly shabby road opposite the railway station.

The interior was mostly plain; magnolia-painted walls with a subtle "feature wall" in another colour in each room. A squashy corduroy sofa and armchairs, looking as if they had seen plenty of life yet inordinately comfortable, dominated the small living room. Most of the furnishings looked like high-end Ikea; although the bookcase had the appearance of an antique, perhaps heirloom - John wondered if it was Mycroft's own. The television was an old, non-flat screen, bulky affair, that seemed to take up the little space not dominated by the over-large suite. The walls were lined with rather lovely photographic prints. All in all, it was a surprising place, suggesting a warm, comfortable presence, and not at all in keeping with Mycroft's suavely menacing persona.

Mycroft crossed to a glass fronted cabinet, and drew out a whiskey bottle, then seemed to recollect his manners.

"Can I make anyone a drink? There's tea and coffee, plus something stronger if anybody wants it. There's pizza in the freezer too."

All four of them huddled around the kitchen table, as their host made a round of hot drinks and shoved two pizzas in the oven. It was a surreal situation. Mycroft had made the phone call to arrange detention of the car boot captives in the time it had taken the kettle to boil, and then had returned to his domestic task as if this was a perfectly normal event. Disturbingly, it probably was.

John's mind wouldn't settle. He absently noticed his host getting an ice-cube tray full of milk out of the freezer, and popping a cube into each of the drinks. _ Why've I never thought of that? _he wondered_. Because you're an idiot, _announced a cheerfully scornful voice inside his head, and he winced at the thought that that brash confidence might have irreparably damaged. His hand shook as he clutched his mug - perfect drinking temperature, thanks to the ice.

They drank their drinks, then ate the pizza in silence. By now, Sally looked as if she was drooping with stress and exhaustion. Mycroft turned kindly to her, and spoke with some of his normal assurance.

"Sergeant Donovan, please feel free to take the spare room and get some rest. Top of the stairs; bed's already made up. The bathroom is straight opposite; feel free to shower, use the towels that are already out, and there's a spare toothbrush, toothpaste, moisturising cream and deodorant in the cabinet. Shampoo and conditioner in the shower. There's a dressing gown in the wardrobe, and DVDs and the remote in the cupboard under the telly. Books here, and in the shelf at the end of the corridor upstairs. Packets of new M&S underwear in the top drawer; there should be several sizes - it's not unusual for me to have to put people up at short notice. John and I can see to Sherlock when he wakes up.

"You too, my dear. Take my room", he added to Not-Anthea. John noticed interestedly that she obviously knew the way.

Sally was blinking slightly in bewilderment at the complex exponent of this immaculate hospitality, but she mumbled a thank you, and obeyed.

"Oh, Sergeant. If you need to speak to anybody, there is a landline in your room. It is a secure line. I'm afraid mobile signals are blocked here. However, I would advise that you are cautious about who you talk to, for the time being."

"Thank you. I won't need the phone, though. Think I'll just sleep, maybe read a bit first." She moved as is on autopilot. Mycroft and John watched her pick up a Georgette Heyer novel from the shelves – John was slightly surprised – romance novels, his Mum had loved them, called them Jane Austen-Lite, not what he'd have expected the hard-nosed police officer to pick. Mycroft's lips quirked, as if he had deduced her preference - which, knowing Mycroft, he probably had. She hesitated, and turned to him. "Send my... best wishes to Sherlock, won't you? And thank him for me. He could have chosen to give me away." Her voice trembled slightly as the last, and she turned to walk quickly up the stairs as if she wanted to hide her face from view.

Mycroft managed an inarticulate reply, but the self-assurance he had regained whilst organising his surroundings almost visibly evaporated. He looked suddenly grey and old as he staggered through to the living room, and reclaimed the bottle of whiskey. He withdrew two beautiful engraved glass tumblers from the cabinet, and wordlessly poured a generous measure in each. He downed his own in one gulp, and held John's out to him, glaring as if daring him to disapprove.

John drained his own glass and accepted a refill as Mycroft moved on to his third.

They then collapsed on the sofa and sat in silence again. John leaned his head back and sipped. He heard the shower go on and off, and the sounds of Sally taking herself to bed.

Mycroft poured himself a fourth glass.

He suddenly realised that flecks of Sherlock's blood still stained his skin.

"I might get a shower myself, if you don't mind?"

"Airing cupboard is under the stairs. Help yourself to towels. Ask Anthea to chuck you and I some fresh clothes from my room." The great mind seemed turned inwards, so John quietly obeyed.

When he returned, wearing a surprisingly ordinary pair of jeans and a cotton jumper, glad to be out of the scrubs, the bottle was half empty. He handed the fresh clothes to his companion, who wordlessly got up, and fairly steadily made his way to the bathroom.

He returned fifteen minutes later, damp-haired and looking uncharacteristically unthreatening in navy jeans and a light green polo shirt. His features were as open as John had ever seen them, the alcohol clearly starting to take effect.

Mycroft reached into the brief case he had carried with him and brought out a beautiful laptop, thin and sleek as an iPad, but with a fantastically high definition screen. Still without speaking, he booted it up, then typed in a series of responses to a complex stream of prompts. The silence in the room became pregnant.

The wallpaper showed a small cottage bathed in a Mediterranean light. He opened the picture menu, then opened a folder marked _Icarus_. He clicked on a picture and swung the screen fully round to John, leaning in himself to share.

The photograph was rather unexpected.

It was of a baby boy, obviously extremely premature, his thin, veined red skin bathed in the weird blue glow of a phototherapy lamp. A plastic breathing tube was secured in place by ribbons tied to a white knitted hat, a nasogastric feeding tube held in place with sticking plaster further obscured his face. Heart monitoring leads covered most of his chest. A glowing red oxygen saturation probe was wrapped around his foot with sticking plaster, and large IV lines protruded from his umbilicus, as well as one in his arm, secured with a splint as long as his whole arm. The overall impression would have been more wire than baby to a layperson, but John was used to such sights, and he noticed the tiny legs obviously mid-kick and spindly arms out-thrown in a vigorous stretch. He also noticed that the equipment looked dated - he'd guess to some time in the 80's.

He stared at Mycroft.

"Is this _Sherlock_?"

The older brother nodded.

"Born at twenty seven weeks and six days gestation. He was impatient from the first."

"No way! That's… bizarre, really. God, he did well. That was near the limits of viability in those days."

"Indeed. Mummy and Father were warned he was quite likely to not survive. They agreed to him having a fairly new lung treatment that they felt helped enormously."

"That must have been surfactant", realised John. "Lung lubricant, reduces the surface tension, reduces the work of breathing and the damage done by artificial ventilation. It's routine now, but it completely changed the outlook of neonatal medicine." He shook his head, puzzled as to why they were having this particular conversation at this particular moment, but enthralled all the same. "I can't believe he never said he was an ex-prem - he must've known I'd be interested - I was only talking about resuscitating 27 week twins the other day."

"Oh, did you?" asked Mycroft, distracted for a moment by obviously genuine excitement. "Were they all right?"

"Yes, they were fine, so far".

"That's wonderful! I do so admire neonatal units, it's a constant source of aggravation to me that I can't seem to get the level of funding I want for them." His attention then returned to the photograph in front of them, and he ran his finger along the screen, and took another generous swig from his glass.

"It was peculiar; how much personality could imbue such a little creature. The doctors said he screamed immediately on delivery, and fought like a little demon against having the breathing tube put down. He was extremely active; I believe they paralysed him at first, but they were able to take his tube out within three days. They tried to put him on another machine to help with his breathing - a CPAP machine - but he fought against that, too, and in the end he was managing on his own by four days."

He clicked on the next picture. The baby wasn't much older, but his skin was less transparent by now, and the hat had been removed along with the breathing tube, revealing sparse black hair. His eyes were open, and he was looking at the camera.

"I was taken to meet him when he was two days old. I took these pictures myself - he's two days old in the first, and five days in the next - photography was something of a hobby of mine. It was a few days off my eighth birthday, and I was distressingly precocious. I appointed myself his guardian immediately, and made it my mission to protest if anybody tried to touch him without washing their hands first. I came every day after school, and sat there with my books, perfectly quiet and well-behaved, but glowering suspiciously at everyone. I must have been a little nightmare.

"When he was seven days old, he got an infection. His abdomen blew up and became a ghastly purple colour, and he looked horribly grey and sick. The most striking thing was, he just stopped moving. Lay there looking like he was already dead, completely quiet and still. Had to be reintubated. To this day, I've never quite been able to rid myself of the feeling that I should have prevented it. There was one nurse, you see, who I was absolutely terrified of, and I saw her go in his incubator several times apparently without washing her hands. After I told her off the first time, you see, she snapped at me that she had already washed her hands in the sink in the corridor, and that I shouldn't be cheeky if I wished to continue to be allowed to visit. I never dared after that..."

He trailed off, voice slightly husky, and looking genuinely agonised. John stepped in to rescue him, amazed, as ever, by the bizarre moral standards of the Holmes brothers, but starting to get a glimmering of understanding as to why all this was at the forefront of the man's mind. He felt a strange urge to protect him, rather like the one that affected him with the extremely competent Sherlock. Those great minds could be terribly destructive when turned inwards against themselves.

"You were _seven_, Mycroft. And only allowed in for a few hours a day. Plus, it sounds like the infection called NEC, which isn't anything to do with hand hygiene - it's related to feeding and the blood supply to the bowel. You couldn't have done anything to prevent it - it's still fairly common now in tiny prems."

"Really?" He actually sounded relieved. "Well, that's… something, I suppose." He cleared his throat and blinked a few times, this information obviously having quite a powerful impact as he filed it away. He shook his head as if to clear it before continuing to speak.

"Anyway. He got over that infection, and seemed to be doing well again." He clicked onto another picture. This time, baby Sherlock was nested on his side, reminding John irresistibly of his later-life sulking posture. "This is him at twelve days. Then sixteen days. Then he got an infection from a line, and it felt like we were going backwards again, but he wasn't quite so ill this time. He needed a blood transfusion, though, and he wasn't gaining weight. He was finally fed again, and it began to feel like he was getting better, as if we were safe."

He clicked on the next picture, and John had to smile, mirroring the wistful grin on the other man's face. The photograph was of a slightly chubby boy with sandy hair, difficult to equate with the Mycroft of today, holding a tiny baby in a blue knitted cardigan and hat, and smiling brilliantly. Sherlock was beginning to look a little more like a real baby than an alien, dressed and pink as he was.

"He's twenty-five days old here. It was the first time I was allowed to hold him. He did well for the next month - look, here he is at thirty-three weeks corrected gestation, looking perfect." Indeed, Sherlock was remarkably pretty for an ex-twenty-seven weeker, albeit a little pale with the typical long thin head. There was another photo, from the same day, of Mycroft feeding his little brother by holding aloft a milk filled syringe attached to the feeding tube.

"And this is probably my favourite from this period." The photograph was a close up of both brothers, Sherlock looking at something off camera, and both grinning. "His first smile that we caught on camera. He's nearly seven weeks old here, just over thirty four weeks gestation.

"Two days later, I developed a cold, and Sherlock got bronchiolitis, as did several other babies in the nursery. There was a bit of an outcry, and no children were allowed on the unit." He smiled grimly. "And before you say anything, I know it was irrational to blame myself, and the timing would suggest I caught my cold from the unit rather than the other way around, but it didn't stop me feeling terrible, especially as I had to watch him suddenly stop breathing and get re-intubated - no-one saw me sitting there, and it all happened so fast - and then I had been banned. I got into quite a lot of trouble at school, when Alastair, an unpleasant little brute then and to this day, started to taunt me that my brother was a 'spaz'.

"I rarely rose to provocation in those days, but on this occasion, I think I was trying to kill him. He was older and bigger than me, but I just kept on screaming and hitting him until the dinner lady pulled us apart. I was suspended for two days, although the teachers were quite sympathetic, and Alastair was suspended too. Mummy, bless her, spoke to the consultant and nurse in charge, and they allowed me to visit, to convince me he wasn't dead.

"He still had the breathing tube down, and he looked all still again. I remember Mummy lifting me up to look at him. I was only allowed five minutes - several parents were disgruntled that I had been let in when other children hadn't as it was. I couldn't stop crying the whole time, although I made sure it was silent. They let me take a photograph." He clicked forwards, and there was the baby Sherlock, again with breathing tube and multiple wires. The picture was a little more blurry that its counterparts.

Mycroft took another big gulp of whiskey. His speech was becoming slightly slurred, but he was as eloquent as ever. His face had taken on a look of entire introspection, and John felt it was important not to interrupt the train of reminiscences.

"Anyway, he got better. He was ventilated for a week, then in oxygen for a few days, then thriving again. He was allowed home at thirty-five weeks gestation, with no oxygen requirement and fully breast fed, with just a few other supplements. Then there was no stopping him. He was giggling by eight weeks of age, reaching out and grasping by four months, sitting by six months, crawling by eight months, walking by eleven months - he was slightly ahead of his milestones even without correcting for his prematurity." Mycroft had clicked several photographs that showed an increasingly normal looking baby, with soft light brown spiky hair and blue eyes. He then brought up old video footage, of Sherlock taking a few wobbly steps towards the camera, a huge grin mutating into a hoary cackle as he did so.

"He was a really cute kid", smiled John, thinking how delighted he'd be to gain this insight into his friend's life under normal circumstances.

"Yes, he was. Very sociable, oddly enough, although his speech was relatively delayed. He was twenty months, and not really speaking - plenty of babbling, but no words, although no-one seemed particularly worried. Then, almost overnight, he started speaking in full sentences. It was as if it was beneath him to say anything until he had something worthwhile to contribute. By the time he was two, he was starting to read, knew all his colours, could draw a recognisable person, count to a hundred, even do simple arithmetic. And frightfully observant. I know he says he has fine-tuned his deductive abilities over the years, but much of it must have been innate, in both of us, as he seemed to see things differently from the beginning." He smiled, fondly, bringing up footage of a little blond toddler holding the hand piece of an old fashioned round-dialled phone to his ear, whilst he babbled unintelligibly into it, then the same toddler singing "Three Blind Mice", and giving a little bow and giggle afterwards.

"When he was two, he nearly drowned.

"Father was supposed to be watching us. He had obviously decided to delegate the task of watching Sherlock to me, although had not deigned to mention it. I was busy with a prize essay for school. I looked up to see he'd gone, and ran outside to look for him, not wanting to mention I'd let him get away from me. I found him face down in the pond. He couldn't have been in there for more than five minutes, but he'd stopped breathing. I screamed for help whilst jumping in to pull him out. Father came running outside, but he was always hopeless in a crisis, and just started shouting in a panic that he'd thought I was watching him. Thank goodness, our uncle arrived just then, and gave him mouth-to-mouth, telling me to call an ambulance, or I don't know whether I'd have retained the presence of mind to do it myself. He started breathing again almost straight away when he was given a few breaths, and was awake and crying when the ambulance arrived."

He paused, and gave John a wintery smile. "You see the theme of my narrative?" John did, all too well. "Times I Have Been Allowed Sherlock To Come To Harm. Forgive me if I become maudlin."

John shook his head, and spoke clearly, emphasising each word. "Mycroft, the pond sounds like you saved his life. It's not an unusual story; active toddler wanders off and gets into trouble. And you were what, ten?"

"Yes, and old enough to have already deduced that the pond was dangerous, as the little monster had a fascination for it. There were frogs and newts… I had suggested we fence it off; Mummy had called me Her Little Worrier and Father, a Fussy Old Man. It was abhorrent neglect on my behalf that I had recognised the danger yet forgotten it because I was immersed in my own pursuits. I swore I would not make such a mistake again."

"I still think you should make some allowances for immaturity and inexperience."

"Perhaps", he sighed, mournfully, then brightened as he turned to the next picture. "He was a delightful child, you know. Very sunny disposition, quite sensitive; fiercely, outstandingly bright. Came across as all the more remarkable as he stayed small for his age right up until he was fifteen." This showed somewhat in the picture: a young Sherlock, probably about four, with his hair beginning to darken, holding a spanner, and showing off a classic soap-box style go-cart, the sort Dennis the Menace might have driven, and John had always wanted. He was much more recognisable in this shot, the high cheekbones already showing above the rounded cheeks.

The next photograph made John's breath catch in his throat, as it showed the small boy playing a child-sized violin, the same intent expression of concentration on his face that he wore today.

"He astonished his teachers with his abilities, but he had friends at that stage, and was quite a normal little boy in many respects, probably because his boundless energy gave him an aptitude for physical play. Kind, too, loved animals - still does, actually, although he tries to hide it. Look, here's him with our old collie Bess - they adored each other. Bit of a temper, often naughty when he got bored, did squabble with some of the children in his class when they teased him for his intellect, but essentially normal. Not particularly Asperger-ish, looking back, although he could get a bit overstimulated sometimes. Just forward and honest. Adorable, really.

"Then Mummy became ill. Depression. Very severe. She became catatonic; could barely recognise anybody, couldn't speak. It was awful. Anyone who's ever suggested a person with a mental illness should 'snap out of it' should have seen her - drawn face, blank, empty eyes - nothing there, nothing behind them at all. She was admitted to a psychiatric ward. Father topped everything off by packing his bags and leaving for good.

"Sherlock was nearly nine when this started, and absolutely pole-axed by it all, dealt with it by being horrendously badly behaved, refusing to engage with anyone. Our grandmother tried to look after him, but he was too much for her. I was away at school. I should have come back, but I was studying to take my A-levels and entrance exams early, plus doing work experience to make connections. Perhaps I didn't realise how bad it was until he got into a horrendous fight in school when someone called Mummy a nutcase, or something similar. It reminded me of when I did a similar thing when he was ill, as I told you about.

"I arranged for our uncle, the one who saved Sherlock from the pond, to come and take care of him. He was strict, and Sherlock idolised him." For a moment, Mycroft sat back in his chair, eyes closed, and mouth drawn into a grimace. It seemed as if telling the next part of Sherlock's life story was costing him something.

"Uncle - treated him very badly. Very badly indeed. I wasn't around to see it - I was giving them space to build a relationship, I didn't want to interfere. I... misjudged appallingly. Sherlock ran away when he was ten, and managed to stay undiscovered for quite a while. Our Uncle died. Our mother recovered eventually, after several rounds of ECT and medication. We got him back, but he was ill, jaded, angry. He'd been alone for too long. He seemed to have lost his ability to integrate normally, although I believe he frequently desperately wanted to.

"He still excelled in his schoolwork, but he did it without effort, doing the bare minimum yet still getting top marks. He was otherwise heading off the rails, and we didn't know what to do. He started getting into more and more trouble when he was in his teens. I won't go into everything that went on, but suffice it to say our relationship was breaking down, and I seriously worried about his future. I then compounded it by arranging for two boys and a girl I believed to be trustworthy to live with him at university. He found out I was behind the arrangement…. after they too had treated him atrociously, and the wedge went deeper.

"I believe you already know a little about the drugs. They were possibly the worst phase of all, and several times I thought we'd lost him. He told me once he'd started using to get back at me, after I tried to curtail some of his more inappropriate endeavours.

"Then there was one of my contacts, Alex, dreadful business involving poisoning, all over the media; I thankfully managed to keep Sherlock's involvement quiet, although he was dreadfully unwell with radiation sickness. Then the incident with the Bruce Partington plans, and look where that led. Then the fiasco with Mr Melas, and Sherlock half dead with carbon monoxide poisoning. And of course, Moriarty."

Mycroft's voice had been a flat monotone for some time now, and John was braced for the storm after the calm. It came as the taller man buried his face in his hands, and groaned out, "I keep trying to protect him, but it just seems to make things worse. I want to rebuild our relationship, but every time I involve him in anything, it seems to end in disaster. I thought it would get better with Moriarty out of the picture, but it's never ending! Oh, I should have seen this! I shouldn't have been out of the country during this. It's my fault."

He began taking deep gasps through the gaps in his fingers. John cautiously lay a hand on his forearm. His head was spinning with these revelations, but he forced himself to speak with his Doctor voice.

"Mycroft. Sherlock loves the chase. He's helped an awful lot of people over time, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Plus, Sherlock would say what you're doing is data mining - looking for the evidence that supports your conclusion, rather than looking at everything. He'd strongly disapprove.

"Look at the real evidence; for one, he does a very good job of getting into trouble without you. Then, look at the cases you've got him just since I've been living with him that _haven't _ended in disaster: the Pygmalion case, that fraud case in Devon, the stuff with the Livingstones and the cormorant, the Russian ballet syndicate, the dog breeding case - he enjoyed all of those, and it stopped him being bored and destructive, which trust me, is as dangerous as anything else.

"_Then_, look at the cases where you've saved us, no matter how ungrateful your brother is. If you want to make up for the pond when he was two, how about the fact that you've saved both of us from nearly drowning _twice_? You stopped those bikers beating the crap out of him last month, you helped clear up the Moriarty thing. And he'll _live_, Mycroft. There's nothing life threatening there. It was a close run thing, but he'll think it was worth it - the chance to prove he's clever _and_ potentially save a terrorist attack and shut down a powerful crime ring. Come on! Tell me more about him as a little kid. I want to be able to tease him when he wakes up and starts bossing me around."

The British Government was looking at John as if he'd never really seen him before, fingers tapered under his chin in a tantalisingly familiar gesture. Then, he forced out a rather watery, but genuine, smile.

"You are quite right, of course, Dr Watson. I can see why Sherlock keeps you around. Right." He pulled up a split screen picture of a dark-haired, silver eyed, very obviously mini-Sherlock, wearing an "I Am 7" badge, and beaming rapturously over his new chemistry set. The other half of the page showed him, in the same outfit, with a blackened face, singed eyebrows, and an unchastened grin. John laughed, and continued to look through photos and videos with Mycroft, whilst pushing his unspoken anxieties about his friend firmly to the back of his mind, where they would stay until Sherlock woke up.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

_ Ugh, I've never found getting to grips with a story as difficult as I've found this one. I've tried to wrap up the plot so many times, and am never satisfied. However, I feel like I'm getting somewhere, and I hope you enjoyed Sherlock's back-story!_

_ Really hope there are still people out there – please read and review!_


	14. Chapter 14

**(M and T are identical this chapter)  
**

**Chapter 14**

The telephone sounded unnaturally loud and shrill in the small living room. Both Mycroft and John jumped, then stared at it blankly, then leapt simultaneously to their feet. Mycroft then waved for the doctor to answer, and John picked up the receiver.

"Hello... Yes, that's right... Yes, I did... Oh good... Right, that's really kind of you, thanks. We'll be there in about half an hour... Thanks."

He looked up, to find a pair of penetrating eyes boring into him.

"They're close to finishing. The surgery went well; they'll be ready to bring him to recovery in around forty minutes. We should get a taxi. They're going to wait for us before they wake him up, in case he freaks out."

Mycroft nodded dumbly, not looking remotely like a genius at this moment. He padded to the door in his socks whilst John rang for a car, and for a moment, John thought he was going to wander outside like that to wait. He collected himself in time though, and pulled on his expensive brogues, which looked somewhat out of keeping with his otherwise casual look.

John led the way through near-deserted hospital corridors to the lifts, and up to the recovery ward. Mycroft kept close to him as they entered the brightly-lit room, and the sister in charge bustled up to them.

"You must be Doctor Watson and Mr Holmes. I'm Carol, I'm looking after Sherlock today. I'm so sorry for what happened to him. He's just at the end of the ward there. The anaesthetist's still here, they've just this minute wheeled him in. They said the surgery went very well; Mr Hande the orthopaedic surgeon will come and have a chat with you later, and Mr Letworth for plastics. They had to do some skin grafting, but not as much as they thought; most of the wounds came together nicely." She spoke with a soft, Gloucestershire burr, and her brisk words were balanced by a natural crinkling softness around her eyes. Her theatre cap had cartoon animals on it.

She led them to the curtained bay, and turned to them both before drawing back the curtains.

"Mr Holmes, have you ever seen anyone come around from an anaesthetic before, me love?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No, Sister Tyndall, never. "

"Try not to be too alarmed. When someone's anaesthetised, they can't breath for themselves, so we take that over for them - so he has a tube in his mouth..."

"Yes, he's been intubated before. Including as a baby - he was an extreme prem."

"Oh bless him. Then I suppose you know what that looks like at least. Coming round can be a bit traumatic - taking the breathing tube out isn't very pleasant, and people often get a bit panicky". She then took Mycroft's hand in hers - she had that knack of making physical comfort seem entirely natural, even to a prickly character like a Holmes - and locked his eyes to hers. "After what your little brother's been through, me love, it might be a bit worse. You just talk to him, let him know you're there. All reet?"

Such was the force of her personality, Mycroft's nod matched her own in tempo, and he clung to her hands swallowing, as he said "yes, of course, thank you", in a voice just slightly husky.

The theatre sister gave a sympathetic grimace in John's direction, and opened the curtains, gently ushering Mycroft to stand on one side of the bed, allowing John to take the other side.

They'd cleaned him up at least. His face was surprisingly unmarred. A bandage was wrapped around his head, holding a bulky dressing over his head wound. A sheet was drawn up over his lower half, but his chest was bare, revealing some of his injuries. The bigger wounds were dressed, some of the smaller simply butterfly-sutured or daubed with a little soft paraffin. His fingers and wrists were swathed in thick bandages, with a gap over his palms. His mouth hung open around the ET tube; his whole face looked oddly slack.

The anaesthetist greeted John and Mycroft with a nod and small smile.

"I'm stopping the Sivo now. It's short acting, so he should start to come round fairly quickly. I've given him a PCA, so he can request his own analgesia, plus he's already got morphine on board and a Voltarol suppository, so he'll be comfortable and a bit sleepy. He's had Ondansetron too, for nausea."

John glanced at Mycroft, thinking that although the anaesthetist had a pleasant manner to him, he could really do with a communication skills upgrade for spouting all that jargon. He needn't have worried; the genius had clearly understood.

They sat to watch Sherlock awaken.

At first, he almost looked as if he were about to harangue Anderson for a moment of stupidity; the crinkling of the bridge of his nose more reminiscent of irritation than anything else.

Then the eyes screwed up tight, he became very red in the face, his eyes snapped wide open again, and the tendons of his neck started standing out starkly, as he began to struggle. Carol spoke to him, saying he was "very safe", that there was a tube down his throat, that they were going to take it out, to nod if he understood. He froze and nodded, then thrashed again as they withdrew the tube. John automatically went to restrain his arms, used to this scenario, although being very careful to avoid the painful, macerated flesh where the duct tape had carved into him.

All three of them took turns speaking soothingly to Sherlock, and his silver eyes flicked wildly from person to person. Initially, he looked reassured by seeing John, but then he suddenly seemed more frightened again. Next his eyes locked on Carol, and he wet his lips - they all leaned forward to hear his first words. John realised he was gritting his teeth and digging his nails into his hands - would that great mind be back online?

A whispered croak came out: "Your hat... got animals on it." He inordinately reassured by this.

"Yes, that's right, clever lad, me love. Look at you, noticing that when you've just come round from an operation. Good lad, you're very safe now." John winced, waiting for the cold indignation at the mollycoddling, but in the same way the detective often allowed Mrs Hudson to mother him, he seemed comforted by Carol, and melted into the embrace she held him in, around his shoulders from behind, while she carried on a stream of "Good lad, well done Sherlock, you're alreet now me love".

John reserved his judgement about his friend's mental state until later.

Slowly, the patient began to return to greater alertness, and a little of the normal sharpness returned to his eyes.

He glanced at the animal cap again. "I'm definitely in hospital, then. I don't think I'd have imagined that hat."

He looked at John and Mycroft, and smiled. "I'm glad you're here." Mycroft couldn't contain a minute twitch of surprise. John reserved judgement again.

The next hour was a great relief; Sherlock's short term memory was still affected, but thankfully only short term; John knew this was very normal on first coming around. He asked the same questions over and over again, but mentioned a couple of events that had happened recently, before his injury, with perfect clarity. However, he also seemed generally quite fuzzy and relaxed. At one point, he turned to John and said "I'm glad you're OK. I told those men where to find you. Sorry about that," sounding about as worried as if he was apologising for making his own tea in John's favourite mug. John gave a silent thanks for good analgesia.

Sherlock then dozed off again for a while, and his friend and brother met each other's eyes. Mycroft seemed to be sagging with relief.

"Thank god. He seems fairly lucid. I presume a degree of forgetfulness is normal at this stage in proceedings?"

John nodded, feeling he must be mirroring the other man's body language.

"This is mild. I once had a patient who broke his ankle, then went psychotic when he came round from the anaesthetic, jumped out of an impossibly small gap in the upstairs window, and broke the other one... but Sherlock's past that stage," he added quickly, seeing Mycroft's face.

They waited together in almost companionable silence, basking in the sight of the occupant on the bed, sleeping peacefully with his mouth slightly open.

Mycroft eventually stirred, and stretched out a crick in his neck. "I suppose I had better commence work upon Nevill, Whittard _et al_." He sighed rather heavily. "It's a depressing task. I haven't had time to fully review the details on the datastick, but Sherlock sent me some photos of Scotland Yard employees who matched up on the duty roster with significant events in Whittard's records, and it would appear one of them, a part time detective sergeant, is one of my most trusted agents. She's easily clever enough to slip away once she realises the game is blown. I must ask Anthea to ensure she's tailed."

The next moment, both men were jumping out if their skins as Sherlock bolted upright, stared at his brother, and croaked "Don't!"

He then flopped back on the bed, exhausted.

"Why not?" asked Mycroft, rather edgily.

"Too tired t' explain. Cn see th'big picture, jus' can't sift it out. Jus' don't ask Anthea to do anything. An'thin' 't 'all. 'S really 'mportnt." His eyes then drifted shut.

John turned to Mycroft, wondering if he had an explanation for this bizarre injunction, then closed his mouth in sudden pained understanding. The British Government had forgotten to don his impassive mask, and he looked white, clammy, and distraught beyond measure. John remembered how the beautiful aide had seemed so comfortable in the bedroom of the Cheltenham house, and drew his own sad conclusions, feeling dreadfully sorry for the man, who must find it so hard to trust.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

_Woo-hoo! Finally sorted this bastard of a story out! More or less written to the end now; lots of editing needed, but at least the bones are fleshed.  
_

_There's a few little alterations in earlier chapters to make this canon compliant – top marks if you spot them._

_Thanks for the reviews and favourites and alerts that have kept coming and kept me motivated! Will try to keep it coming. Hang in there!_


	15. Chapter 15

**This chapter is identical for both T and M versions**

**Chapter 15**

When Sherlock woke up, Mycroft was still there. The sequence of events leading to this situation laboriously laid themselves out behind his still-closed eyelids.

Even doped up to the eyeballs and recently tortured, Sherlock was aware that Mycroft trusted his brother's judgement implicitly in certain matters. The matters at hand certainly fell under this purview. He would therefore have resolved to obey the command to not allow Anthea any involvement in this case. He would probably choose to misdirect her, whilst ruthlessly pushing away any vestiges of sentiment that this resolve stirred up – he would term it destructive and foolish.

That did not mean he could not start looking into the situation himself. However, that would necessitate fetching the datastick, and he would be loath to leave his brother unattended for any significant period of time, and even more unwilling to trust the task of couriering it to anybody else. The implications hanging over Anthea would have swept the legs out from any ability he might have had to trust others.

Logically, therefore, the British Government would be at a standstill until his brother was sufficiently mentally stable to leave with confidence. Sherlock reviewed the available cover stories, and decided on the likeliest: probably, Mycroft had decided to tell Anthea that the doctors were concerned about brain damage; that Sherlock was recognising nobody but him, and was fighting the nurses when he was awake. Let the woman underestimate him, and lull anyone else privy to this information into as much security as possible.

He looked at the clock. He had slept for four hours and twelve minutes.

Waking up had been an unpleasant affair, fragments of his recent ordeal all rampaging through his dreams.

John and Mycroft had watched his young face creasing and twitching, whilst his breath became jagged and uneven. They had shared a glance, then John had leaned over and spoken in his ear.

"Sherlock. Wake up. You're safe, honestly. Come on, mate, wake up now."

He had come to with an almighty gasp, and had jarred his numerous injuries trying unsuccessfully to sit up.

Now he was propped up on pillows, gratefully pressing the button on the morphine pump, as much for the swimming fuzzy-headedness as for the pain. Somewhere, there was guilt; he should be finishing off the case, stitching together those disparate strands that he knew, under normal circumstances, he could easily form into a whole. There was anger, too. Taller and Shorter had humiliated, demeaned him; he wanted to utterly undo those who had commanded them, take apart their sordid little empire piece by piece.

He needed to see the contents of the datastick. It was there, stored in his mental hard drive, but accessing it and processing it simultaneously would, he reluctantly admitted, be too much for his battered constitution at present.

His CPU was busy trying to delete the events of his kidnap. Every now and again, a shard of memory, a random spike of terror or a surge of guilt would break through, and he refused to acknowledge them right now. He switched analogies; Mind Palace. Bury those emotions deep in the cellar. Or better, in the crypt.

Obviously, Mycroft had to get going. The datastick was the rate limiting step. Sherlock must gather his scattered wits, and present a respectable front to his brother, convince the old fusspot to leave. He turned his head to Mycroft and croaked, in as close an approximation of his normal biting tone as possible;

"The trains to London depart Gloucester once or twice every hour, I believe, Mycroft. I believe you do know how to negotiate our sadly neglected railway network?"

His brother, who had been staring ahead, lost in thought, and rather hung-over judging by the conjunctival and scleral injection and the sheen of sweat across his top lip, gave a small start, then an even smaller smile.

"Yes, of course. The stick. Now that you are more yourself…" He trailed off, and Sherlock tried to glower, both hating the concern he could read in the minute contractions of his brother's facial musculature, and basking in it.

Recovering himself, Mycroft turned to John, haughty composure back in place, if attenuated by the absence of his fine tailoring.

"Where did you hide the datastick, John?"

"Sellotaped it under your chair in the Diogenes. No-one else ever dares sit there, do they? And even if I had never got to tell you, it would have fallen off when you sat down, and you'd have noticed."

Both brothers beamed at John.

"He is coming along beautifully, isn't he?" said Mycroft to Sherlock, earning a tiny chuckle. He rose to his feet, stretching out his back with several audible popping sounds.

"You need a holiday, brother dear. Getting old," drawled Sherlock, just the veriest sliver of concern in his voice beneath the jibe.

"I might just take your advice when this is over. Although perhaps retirement would be even better."

A snort accompanied him as he left the room. _Mycroft would feel the need to manipulate the bellboy into reporting on the concierge and the waiter into reporting on the bellboy if he spent a week at an all-inclusive in the Caribbean,_ thought Sherlock, the biting commentary a reflex.

John turned back to Sherlock.

"OK?" he asked, tentatively.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer yes, of course he was perfectly fine, when his throat seemed to close over, and a coldness washed over him. Instead, he fumbled for John's hand with his own bandaged one. His friend's wound fingers around the bare skin of his palm, and he took deep breaths, pulling in air that suddenly seemed far too light and unsubstantial.

"Budge up. I'll help you with the leg; just the rest of you."

John was standing, smiling at him. With deep, quiet relief, Sherlock shuffled sideways on the bed whilst John lifted his bandaged leg, wincing as he jarred himself, quickly exhausted by the effort, but happy to have cleared the narrow strip John could lie beside him on. It allowed him to rest his forehead on John's firm, indisputably _real_ shoulder, and calm the hammering in his ears. He fell asleep again like that.

His next awakening was no less unpleasant in its prelude, but the disorientation and fear dissolved more quickly this time. He could hear John chatting to Carol, the recovery nurse. They were transferring him to a cubicle off the orthopaedic ward. As he winced at the jarring caused by the journey down the corridor, a thought struck him, which he pondered until he they had parked his bed by the window in his new room – _draughty, won't fully close, next to radiator blasting out heat which won't turn off. The NHS really doesn't help planet earth overall if one views it objectively; inefficiently pouring resources into keeping the least useful members of our species alive_. The (bit not-good) thought scratched itself out as Carol arranged his pillows, and wished him a good recovery. _It doesn't add up. One of those indefinables. Like John, really._ He turned to his friend, returning to his niggling musings from the corridor.

"So, how did you find me?"

"Your phone. GPS tracking."

"But I haven't enabled it."

"No, but I have."

"But it's password protected!"

"And you ask me to send texts for you all the time."

"Devious. But, I go off on my own all the time. How did you know I was in trouble?"

John looked a little embarrassed. "I often keep an eye on you. You spent that time at the Yard, then you were walking briskly home – you were obviously thinking – then you suddenly stopped for two minutes, then you were heading off in a car. It just didn't seem right. Usually, if you have a sudden revelation, you pace a bit, but this time, you just stopped."

He realised Sherlock was staring at him, and blushed.

"That's… amazing."

"Normally my line, Sherlock. And you're always on at me to _observe_."

"Yes, but I never expected you to actually carry it off."

"Thanks."

"You _cyber stalk_ me? Enough to recognise the _behavioural significance of my walking?_"

"I think I'm justified in a bit of paranoia. Anyway, I assumed you'd noticed."

It was Sherlock's turn to look embarrassed now, and a little annoyed. "Evidently not. I discounted you; your propensity for being blindingly obvious got you under the radar. Schoolboy error, obviously. So, you were already suspicious. You noted that I was being taken out into the back of beyond. You presumably assumed I'd contact you if I needed you, but you got cold feet."

"Your sense of self-preservation hasn't always been perfect," interjected John, drily. "And I'd been watching Aggie. She snuck out of the house after Whittard left and called someone on her mobile in the garden. She seemed really agitated afterwards, so I was already getting concerned. I followed her then, but she just seemed to go home and stayed there, so I didn't have much to do besides watching you. When I saw how far out of London you were headed, I hopped on the train to Watford, got a hire car, and followed you. I thought even if you'd just gone haring off to do something mad, I could still help."

"You didn't text me in case I was in a precarious situation. You then got especially nervous when the signal disappeared. They must have turned my mobile off inside the house."

"Yeah, it'd been still for a while beforehand. I thought it must have been switched off, and I knew that wasn't like you. Unfortunately, the signal's not so good out there, so the location accuracy wasn't great. About a half mile radius. I had to go back to one of the smaller lanes I was sure you must have come down in the car – no other roads for at least a mile going in that direction - and I looked at the tyre tracks. It was pretty muddy, so there were fairly clear impressions and not many cars, but of course, they petered out on some of the other lanes, and I didn't know which were the right ones to follow, so I had to take it one by one.

"I checked out two farms and three big old haunted house type places – nearly got bitten by dogs, and was shouted at for trespassing by a farmer, had to pretend to be lost. There wasn't any sign of you, and two of the houses had been sold in recent years and didn't have a cellar on the estate agent websites, or anywhere you could be hidden – thank God those two were daft enough to go for the cellar cliché – if you'd just been stuffed in a normal upstairs bedroom somewhere, I'd've been in trouble.

"The other house had kids in the back garden, so it seemed a bit less likely. Then I saw Sally's car, and I came down the drive just in time to see those two come at you both with bloody big knives."

There was no doubt that Sherlock was gaping now. He could feel the unfamiliar expression on his own face. Then he felt the sudden sting behind his eyes, and he had to swallow several times and clear his throat.

"Thank you, John," he managed to say, his voice thick. "You really are… indefinable."

"Is that a compliment?" asked John, smiling, but Sherlock seemed miles away. Jerking back to reality, eyes suddenly heavy, he smiled back, and allowed his eyes to drift closed.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

_Right, I'm going to give up with the apologies and promises! This'll get done one day. It's just in the middle drawer in the kitchen in the Mind Palace at the moment, along with all the bits of string, boxes of matches, Allen keys, batteries, broken torches etc. I know it's there. I make sure I fish it out now and again, pin it to the wall… ugh, this metaphor's breaking down!_

_ I have a couple more chapters completed, and, as I've said before, the story's been blocked out fully for ages – but those fine details just keep tormenting me._

_ Anyway, enjoy! Thanks for all your reviews – I'm deeply touched that they keep on coming, despite my dilatoriness – it's really a big part of what's kept me writing. _


	16. Chapter 16

**(T and M versions are identical for this chapter)  
**

**Chapter 16**

Mycroft copied the contents of the datastick, found exactly where John had promised it would be, onto his laptop. It had been necessary to stop at home to shave and change into attire that would not get him cashiered from his own exclusive establishment. He also collected his second and third best laptops for John and Sherlock to use – they would both require entertaining. After a moment's thought, he also picked up a small self inflating airbed and sleeping bag for John.

He considered reading the information on the train back to Gloucester, but the carriage was crowded, and there was too much risk of being overlooked. Having taught Sherlock the maxims that (1) it was unwise to theorise without data and (2) that caring was a disadvantage, he tried to adhere to his own standards.

They were slipping. Images of Sherlock flickered in and out; between Anthea, smiling, her hair brushing his cheek as she bent towards him with a cup of coffee; between potential machinations of his shortlist of potentially untrustworthy aides. He let slip a loud groan, massaging his temples, then stuck his chin out as he noticed the curious gaze of several nearby passengers.

He started to play Scrabble on his smart phone.

He was celebrating deriving "caprification" from the phone's "cation" as they drew back into Gloucester. He took a taxi to the hospital, and dropped the laptops off, reassuring himself that his brother was sleeping peacefully. John looked as if he could kiss him at the sight of the airbed. The plastic armchair he sat in looked terribly uncomfortable.

He changed back into his casual gear – not wanting to advertise his trip to London - then took a taxi back to the Cheltenham house.

Anthea looked up from the sofa as he walked in. She was reading Gormenghast, her Blackberry dutifully out of reach on the mantelpiece.

He ignored the sharp pain he felt as she smiled up at him.

"How's Sherlock, Sir?"

"Not well," he answered, perversely glad that his thoughts were suitably bleak to grant his face the correct dejected expression. "His mind… he seems to be trapped in a somewhat infantile state." _Not entirely a lie, even at his best_. "I don't know how much use any testimony he gives us will be. His memory…" He let the end of the sentence trail off. Still not a lie. He didn't want to directly lie to her yet.

Her face showed genuine shock and upset. She was usually so unruffled. She'd looked like this when she'd thought Sherlock had jumped.

"I'm so sorry. Do they think he'll get better?"

"We can hope." He was getting good at this. He was almost, _almost_ amusing himself. "Will you excuse me, my dear? I need to resolve some important issues surrounding this business. I think I'll work on the bed, stretch out a bit. I'll need to get back to Sherlock soon, so there's someone he actually recognises there."

She opened and closed her mouth, clearly struggling to know what to say.

"Would you like some tea?" He'd known she would offer.

"That would be delightful. Thank you, as always."

His feet dragged heavily as he climbed the stairs. He was tired to his very marrow; he didn't usually notice it much.

Anthea appeared soon after he had powered up his laptop, carrying a pot of Darjeeling, brewed just as he liked it.

He thought something might have ruptured inside him as she placed the pot on his bedside table, then softly laid an immaculate, gentle hand upon his cheek, face soft with sympathy. He allowed himself a moment of closing his eyes, then cleared his head.

He needed to establish whether she had obeyed his commands as to complete radio silence. The house cameras would tell him whether she had left. There was always her phone to consider. There was signal if one climbed into the attic and hung out the skylight.

"Have you got Ellory's number, Anthea?"

She looked up the number straight away, and he held out his hand imperiously, before she had the time to start reading it out. He admired her restraint in making her hesitation barely noticeable before handing him the phone.

He copied the number down, then placed the handset on the bedside table, on the opposite side of the bed to her.

"On second thoughts, could you phone him yourself?" He held out the number. "If I call him directly, he may get agitated. Tell him to look up the information on the drafts for the latest crime bill amendment. Try to get it quickly, but don't make it sound too urgent."

If she was puzzled, she didn't show it. As she left the room to use the land line, he snatched up her phone. It hadn't automatically locked itself yet. Quickly, he checked the sent message log. It appeared on the surface that she had kept silent, but he still connected it to his laptop, running an ingenious little programme that would search any hard drive for deleted information. Nothing. He disconnected the phone, and placed it back in exactly the same position it had been in. He checked the camera feeds. She had not left the house.

He shouldn't have been so relieved. It made little difference in the long run. There were more pressing issues to be addressed. He cleared his head, and started to read.

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	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

John was woken up from his position on the lilo by a huff of frustration. The room was dark, except for the glow from Sherlock's laptop screen. He glanced at his watch – it was the early hours of the morning.

"Not resting then?"

"Been sleeping all day. I'm twice as slow with all the medication, plus I can't type. It's infuriating. Needed to review this. Important."

Sherlock's face looked pale and pinched. He was stabbing at the keyboard with a pen held in the crook between his thumb and first finger.

"I know there's something that's stuck in my recycling bin (_an analogy that worked quite equitably for both his Hard Drive and Mind Palace techniques – although he usually saved the compost for his more contemptuous storage_). Just need to access it."

John sat up, yawning, and rubbing the back of his neck. He had been about to protest, but was stopped by the slightly haunted expression his friend wore. Distraction was good right now. The rest could wait until they were back in Baker Street. He leaned over to read over Sherlock's shoulder, then frowned.

"Sherlock – isn't that the Scotland Yard intranet?"

"Only bits of it. It's reassuringly difficult to hack the important bits, but I set up a handy little access point to look at these rotas and the personnel files again."

"You really are a dangerous nutter."

"Don't over-dramatise, John."

"What are you doing?"

"Checking the credentials of the IT department. They're ideally placed to… _Oh!_ Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"

He swung the screen around to John. John blinked at the picture of an offensively good looking man; all aftershave-model good looks and chiselled chin.

"I know him from somewhere. Where've I seen him before?" he muttered.

"The time we met Anthea _and her boyfriend_ at the Bon Iver gig that I 'dragged you' to. Jared Ford. I _thought_ he seemed uneasy at the time. Mycroft's only set eyes on him through surveillance photos."

"So, he works for Scotland Yard?"

"Apparently so. The IT department. I've been on the alert to what a good 'in' it is to an organisation, ever since dear departed _'Jim from IT'_. Only thing is, he has a first class degree in computing from Oxford, then a masters from Harvard."

"So what's he doing working for the public sector, you mean? I see your point; our IT guys haven't got much past 'turn it off then back on again', and look at the NHS IT contract."

"Precisely. Scotland Yard pays peanuts. This man is an evolutionary level removed from their usual class of monkeys. They must have thought their dreams had come true when he shimmied onto the scene. Hmm. Aha! Got it – records of his application, including his CV. Worked for some prestigious companies in his time… and, _oh look_, What a surprise. This is fantastic! Stoper's Personnel Recruitment Agency."

"Sorry, is that significant?"

"Oh, keep up John. Judith Stoper's one of Nevill's contacts. She runs an outwardly squeaky clean successful recruitment service, with a branch specialising in au pairs and the like, big thriving company, you read about her in Whittard's records. I expect much of the trafficking must go through her, but so far, she's been untouchable. I really need to have words with Mycroft; he's had his eye on them for ages, yet somehow missed that his most trusted employee had shacked up with an ex-employee right under his nose.

"So the morally flexible yet technologically brilliant Jared Ford is presumably employed to _legitimise_ some of their transactions. But business is booming – and not just for au pairs and live-in nannies. They need a more _permanent _arrangement. And there's Nevill with his tame connections deep in the heart of the Met. I wonder if Whittard had to pull any strings to get Jared employed – or maybe they just snapped him up, never believing their luck."

"So he's a mole?"

"He's a Super-Mole! Complete with little cape! Oh, this is brilliant! It's gift wrapped for me! Mycroft won't know whether to be cheered up or overwhelmingly pissed off! And then, he'll have to be _grateful_ to me as well! He'll probably explode trying to process so many emotions at once! Because _here's his leak,_ and it isn't any of his trusted stooges, not really, poor old Anthea's obviously thought her GCSE in computing and her European Computer Driving Course was sufficient to protect her phone – oh a little knowledge is a dangerous thing! Of _course_ it wasn't enough to keep her clever obnoxious boyfriend out! She'd have been better off accepting she's a Luddite and taking better precautions like hiding the bloody thing – and she's always on it! All those lovely state secrets as a bonus, and a brilliant loop whereby he can watch those who might be watching him. Where is the fat git?"

Sherlock tried to bolt upright in his excitement, when the unexpected happened. A surge of pain flooded his entire body as he jarred himself, and he sunk back to the bed with a low moan. _It hurts. It hurts._ For a moment, his vision was greying, and the walls seemed to close in. His breath caught in his throat, and his mind skittered off its smooth track like a derailed Skalectrix. Frightened by the sudden loss of his usual command over himself, he mentally scrabbled for purchase, to convince himself he was safe, and out of the improvised torture chamber.

Then there was the warmth against his palm again, and John's voice, and exhaustion followed fear and exhilaration so suddenly and overwhelmingly that he only had a moment of frustration that he was being compelled to leave the puzzle half solved before he found himself helplessly watching the blurry grey bars of his eyelashes falling across his vision, as the thoughts swam away.

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_Thank you for your reviews and your patience!_


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Mycroft padded down the corridors of the hospital in some trepidation. He had had a phone call from John, letting him know his brother had more news. He was not given to nerves, and he smiled grimly as he recalled that almost all the more disagreeable manifestations of his autonomic nervous system in recent years had been related to Sherlock in some way. Having an idea of what he might be told was not soothing; in this case, it made it worse. Anthea had made him the perfect cup of tea that morning, and brought it to him in bed, her attitude of softly speaking availability, and he couldn't face the loss of that unique blend of competence and tenderness with his usual equanimity.

Sherlock was sitting up in bed when he entered the cubicle, but looked like he shouldn't be. He was pale, far more so than his usual sickly magnolia, although a hectic flush stained his high cheekbones. Dark shadows ringed his eyes – some probably due to bruising, but it said something for the man's general condition that it was difficult to circumscribe where bruise ended and shadow started. His usual athletic posture, which Mycroft so envied and could never quite emulate (ruefully agreeing with Sherlock's rude assessment that he looked as if he was secretly carrying a spare umbrella) was sagging slightly, speaking of terrible exhaustion.

Then, Sherlock looked up and saw him, and some of the brightness immediately re-entered his affect.

"Mycroft! Sit down. I need to tell you what an idiot you've been, and I don't want to crane my neck nor miss the look on your face." He grinned wolfishly as he finished speaking, and Mycroft could not help the little, half amused, half irritated quirk that lifted his own lips.

"Will here give you a good enough view of my chastisement, brother?"

"Perfect. Right, your leak. I was right, it _was_ coming from Anthea."

Mycroft couldn't help the grimace. Nor the grey colouration he had no doubt was now lending his countenance a sickly tinge. He would have hoped Sherlock would be a little kinder. Foolish thing to hope really.

"No, no, not like that!" The voice was superficially as imperious and impatient as ever, but there was a definite note of concern, and contrition. He looked up to see the strained white face against the pillow wearing an uncharacteristically softened expression. Hope began to bloom in his chest, and he sternly forced it down.

"Not?"

"No. The Whittard and Nevill stuff's all what it seems on the surface. However, you'll have no doubt observed that most of the players have been assigned code names. It shouldn't help them much – they can be paired up neatly with the information on the duty rosters. I looked at your men on the inside. And at first I thought that Peterson was your man, as everything seemed to correspond, but it wouldn't do. Not just because he's been with you for donkey's years and for some reason seems to think even your farts contain the wisdom of Solomon, but the timing…

"I knew something was wrong when I looked briefly at the roster, and one of the major events, that 'disappearing' boat episode, where all the conspirators had been involved, was on the weekend of your little Polish crisis a few months back - I doubted any of your team could have been involved then – they were all with you. I realised then that Peterson must have been set up as a fall guy – insurance if everything went pear-shaped – and I'm guessing they weren't to know he had an irreproachable alibi that weekend before forging the rosters, as I'm sure he didn't exactly advertise the fact that he was dancing attendance on you during a diplomatic crisis.

"So, if it wasn't Peterson…"

"It was Anthea's boyfriend, Mycroft," cut in John, impatiently, obviously deprecating Sherlock's drawing out of the point. Sherlock briefly looked highly annoyed, then seemed to recall that perhaps this wasn't the most gentlemanly topic to torture Mycroft with.

Mycroft sat back. He felt unaccountably breathless. Then highly embarrassed. _Of course! Stupid, stupid!_ He had made it a point of principle _not_ to pry on Anthea, _not _to go over every aspect of her life with a fine toothcomb, simply because the temptation to do so was so strong. He had not applied his usual rigorous (some might say paranoid) system of checks and double checks when she began dating the (young, ridiculously good looking, highly intelligent, athletic) man, simply because he itched to do so, and it made him feel like he was turning into a perverted stalker (as opposed to the more respectable brand of stalker that he was perfectly happy to own to). He dropped his head into his hands. It should have been obvious. It _was_ so very obvious. And he'd missed it.

"You should be pleased Mycroft. Here's your chance; she's been parading the man around you to get your full attention for months now. She'll be full of remorse for letting you down too; the perfect opportunity for you to tell her that actually you don't just want a no strings mutually convenient arrangement after all."

Mycroft looked at his brother with narrowed eyes. "Sometimes, Sherlock, it's easy to forget that you're not really a sociopath". He was surprised to see the brief flash of shame cross the detective's face, and he wondered if the head injury had left the younger man somewhat disinhibited.

"Just saying. I don't think she really likes him all that much. I saw them together at a concert, and she was playing with her hair whenever he spoke to her."

Mycroft and John looked at each other, matching expressions of disbelief on their faces. John broke the awkward silence.

"Er… Sherlock. That's supposed to be a sign that a woman's attracted to somebody."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "Yes yes, but not Anthea. She works for _you_, for God's sake Mycroft. She doesn't have a tic or a tell left to her name; all your best employees try for the Mona Lisa thing and suppress their body language. Ergo, she was playing with her hair consciously rather than unconsciously for our benefit, which is rather conniving. If she really cared about him, she'd be honest. Honestly, anyone would think it was you with the head injury."

It was ridiculous of course. Quite preposterous. There were myriad other explanations. But Mycroft still felt like a hot air balloon that was reinflating with gorgeous warm hope…. Quickly, he suppressed his own body language, refusing to give his brother the satisfaction of being right. He calmly rose to his feet.

"Thank you, Sherlock. This has been very informative. With the new information in mind, I believe we may 'start the ball rolling', as the vernacular goes." He then realised he'd unthinkingly cleared his throat and loosened his collar. _Damn!_ He glanced surreptitiously at Sherlock, to see if he'd noticed. Of course he had. He was looking insufferably smug.

Discretion sometimes being the best part of valour, Mycroft retreated. It was time to dismantle this little crime empire. He would have to speak to Anthea first, of course. It was only logical, after all.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo


End file.
